


Raise Your Cups to the Stars

by SamanthaCrowe



Series: All Ends with Beginnings [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Anal Play, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Cake, Church of Satan, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gay Sex, Hell, Lesbian Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Ritual Sex, Romance, Sacrilege, Satanism, Sex, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-01-29 19:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 50,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaCrowe/pseuds/SamanthaCrowe
Summary: In the countdown to the end of days, Eve settles into her role as the First Lady of Darkness. Serving Michael's ever-evolving needs keeps her on her toes, while the Church of Satan relies on her to keep the faith.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Original Female Character(s), Michael Langdon/Original Male Character(s), Michael Langdon/You
Series: All Ends with Beginnings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539784
Comments: 13
Kudos: 54





	1. The New Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Volume Two! The chapters for this one are going to come out more slowly than Volume One, I think. Please be patient with me. :)

As I’m smoothing my dress over my protruding belly, straightening my necklace, and nervously clearing my throat, I have a strong sense of _déjà vu_. About eight months ago, I’d stood in this very spot outside the Cooperative’s dining room, arm-in-arm with Michael Langdon, ready to walk in and get “announced” to the group. I remember what he said to them so clearly, about Satan’s vision of Michael as the highest ruler on earth, with me at his side. And his stern warning to the naysayers in the group: “As it has been decreed by my father, so shall it be done, and any additional questions you might have about it will be met with only one response: _none of your fucking business._”

I’m expecting he’ll say something similar today. _This is Eve. She’s still with me. I don’t care what you think about it. Oh, also, I knocked her up._

I turn and look at Michael, who is adjusting his cuffs, making sure he looks impeccable, head-to-toe, but showing no signs of nervousness. He owns these people, and has nothing to fear from them. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Are you all right?” he asks.

I nod. “Just tired, I think.”

“We’ll make this very quick. I have every expectation that this room is about to explode with exaltation and… if you feel like ducking out, that’s fine with me.”

I smile to myself, remembering the antics I’d seen go down at previous Cooperative celebrations – lots of unbridled vice, lust, and gluttony. I smirk at him. “When this is all over,” I say, gesturing to my belly, “I’m going to be *so* ready to party like a rock star again.”

Now he raises both of his eyebrows, slides his arm behind my back and pulls me in close. “Is that a promise?”

I close my eyes, and drink in the smell of him. “Yes, my lord,” I whisper. He lifts my chin with his finger and I’m anticipating the touch of his full lips, when we’re rudely interrupted.

“OK!” Ms. Mead exclaims, slipping out of the dining room’s double doors. “They’re ready for us!”

We both glare at her for a moment, then settle ourselves into our most imposing stances. Michael’s chin is held high, jaw clenched, and he looks regal and beautiful yet totally terrifying in the way that only he can. I take his arm and try my best to mirror his poise. Ms. Mead steps in line behind us, Michael flings the door open, and we enter.

Immediately, I hear all kinds of gasps, cheers, and exclamations. It’s pretty much the same progression from every single person: “Look, Eve is back! Praise Satan! Holy shit is she pregnant?”

I try to mostly keep my eyes forward as we walk through the room, but I do take a quick glance around. It’s the same as last time – the Cooperative members are seated at two long tables, with the support staff standing around the edge of the room. The two velvet-tufted chairs are up in the front, and once we get there, I sit in one and Ms. Mead sits in the other. But unlike last time, the crowd is wild and unruly. Michael is right; they are ready to celebrate.

Michael holds up his finger and gestures for quiet; the room is instantly silent. His eyes brighten a little and I can see he’s going for a more celebratory tone than he usually takes when he addresses the Compound. He holds his arms open wide and exclaims, _“In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Luciferi Excelsi!”_

We all respond with an emphatic, _“Ave Satanas!”_

He says nothing for a moment and just looks around the room, a little smile on his face. And then he starts, “My friends. This is a joyous day indeed. As you can see, through the glory of my father’s wisdom and strength, we have found my Evelyn and brought her back home to us.” The room explodes in applause and cheering.

He allows it to continue for a moment, then hushes everyone again. “I’m sure you’ve all heard versions of the truth, but I want to make sure we’re all clear: this act of aggression was carried out by Satanists’ oldest adversaries, the witches.” Booing and hissing from the room. “Before we all came together to begin the end of the world, I eradicated all the warlocks and the majority of the witches. But those that remain are intent on destroying me, and derailing our efforts. Their plan was to kidnap Eve, and my unborn child…” Murmurs and more gasps. “…thinking they could prevent the Apocalypse. While my father and I were able to thwart this plan, we must remain diligent against future attacks. Believe me, we are preparing to use all of Satan’s might to strike back against them.” More applause and cheers.

Michael continues, thanking individual Co-op members who contributed to my search-and-rescue mission, and my mind starts to wander. None of them know that my ex-girlfriend Val had assisted the witches. And no one at all – not even Michael – knows that I had known she was up to it, and did nothing to stop her. At the time, thinking that I had the power to stop the Apocalypse, the power to _save all of humanity, _had gone to my head. But I had since realized that the prophecy was inevitable, and resumed my place at Michael’s side. I still feel twinges of doubt from time to time, and I do worry about what Michael is going to do to Val and the witches, who had been so kind to me. But mostly, I worry that he will somehow find out that I knew about their plan, which would be a betrayal of the highest order. 

I return my attention to Michael. “Now that Eve has returned, we can resume our planned course of action. The building of the Sanctuary is now complete; all that remains is to stock it with a few last supplies. And finish setting up the baby’s room,” he says, flashing me some eye sparkle. I smile back at him. “Outpost construction is near complete, and we need to recruit a few more people. Our new timeline has us staying here in the compound through Walpurgisnacht, which is eight weeks away. We will have one last opportunity to celebrate among the earth’s full bounty, and then we’ll move to our shelters.” More applause, more cheering.

One of the hospitality staff approaches with a tray containing two glasses of red wine and a seltzer. She passes the drinks out between the three of us, and Michael raises his glass. “A toast to my father, to the end of the world, to a new beginning for our kind. Hail Satan!” The Co-op members all scream their replies, most of them appearing to be hell-bent on getting wasted tonight. Michael downs his entire glass in one gulp, eliciting more cheers. 

He extends his arm to me and escorts me to our chairs at the head of the table. I take a seat, while Michael is pulled aside by one member after another, to get clapped on the back for a job well done, congratulated for his upcoming fatherhood, and so on. A few ladies to come over to me and say congratulations, but it’s clear I’m not the star of this show. I also notice a number of women shooting daggers at me with their eyes and I have to wonder if they’re jealous. _Can you blame them?_

The support staff starts exiting the room, so that the Cooperative can continue its party unobserved. As the kitchen staff moves toward the door, my dear friend Edward catches my eye and blows me a kiss. I wave longingly at him as he moves out of sight. Satanic royalty though I may now be, I came from humble beginnings, and right now, I’d so much rather be hanging out with my kitchen buddies than rubbing elbows with the Cooperative.


	2. The Hangover

Michael gave me permission to leave the party, and as the night wears on, I keep thinking that it’s time for me to go. But whenever I start to get up, someone interrupts my departure with words of kindness, curiosity about my baby, or questions about my time with the witches. “It must’ve been such a horrendous ordeal!” they assume. Little do they know that I spent an awful lot of that time eating gourmet food and fucking my ex. 

So I end up staying for the whole event, and I’m pretty astounded to watch Michael’s behavior. I have never seen him drink this much. Every time I catch his eye, he gives me a brilliant smile, like he’s really enjoying himself. He’s talking and laughing and getting pulled into the Cooperative’s particular brand of decadence — usually he seems more distanced, quietly sitting and observing them, in an air of what feels like judgment. 

Eventually things seem to be winding down, and I feel him come up behind me and place his hands on my shoulders. He leans down and whispers in my ear, his speech slurring, “I’m ready to take you home.” I smile up at him, we gather ourselves, say a few farewells, and head up to our room. As we walk, I have my arm wrapped around his waist, steadying him as he stumbles along. In the elevator, he kinda slumps against the wall and exhales. 

“You all right?” I ask him. 

He grins at me. “Never better.”

I shake my head at him, chuckling. “I guess you’re really feeling that human side tonight, huh?” 

He nods. “Arguably my favorite perk of being Satan’s son — no hangovers.”

I laugh at that and help him up as we arrive at our floor. We make the stumbling walk to our door and once we’re inside our room, he drops onto the bed in a dramatic flop. I sit down next to his feet and start unlacing his boots. _Fuck, I love these boots._ His eyes are closed, and he starts mumbling to himself, but at first I can’t discern what he’s saying. His words start to get more and more emphatic, and I hear him say, “It’s over. It’s finally over.” 

I scoot up closer to his face and sweep his hair out of his eyes. “What’s over, my love?” 

His eyes remain closed as he whispers his reply. “The torment. The absolute misery that has been the last two months.” 

I stroke his face and his eyes pop open. I can see that they’re becoming wet with tears. It’s like a shot to my heart. “Michael,” I whisper. 

He inhales deeply, and as he slowly exhales, he seems to be sobering himself. When he opens his mouth to speak, the emotion is still there, but the slurring is gone. “While you were away… I was not alive. I didn’t eat or sleep. I walked around in a constant state of rage, because I felt so powerless. And terrified that I’d never see you again. That I’d never know my child. They were pressuring me, Ms. Mead and the Co-op, to keep the plan moving and I… couldn’t. My father's plan, my whole purpose for being… I couldn’t do it. Not until I found you. And once again, my father was not there for me at all. *You* are part of his plan for me, too, and I needed him to guide me. But he wasn’t there.” 

Huge round tears are spilling down his cheeks, and my heart is ripping open. I don’t even know what to say, so I just keep stroking his face, feeling my own eyes swelling up with tears. 

“And now, finally, it’s over,” he continues. “You’re back, my child is safe, we’re back on track. It’s such a relief… it’s almost overwhelming.”

I look down at him, nodding in agreement. “My love,” I say to him, still cradling his face. “When I was away, you were still with me. Every time I fell asleep, you were right there in my dreams. It was so vivid, so real. I’d see you, hear you, feel you… and then I’d wake up to my miserable reality. I had to find a way to stop actively feeling that misery at every moment, for the sake of our baby.”

He nods. “I know.” 

“But I craved you, morning, noon, and night. My body and soul knew that they belonged with you. And the moment you walked in that door… everything made sense again.” I lie down next to him and rest my head on his chest. We both let out a long exhale, and lie there in silence for a few minutes, clinging to each other.

Eventually, I feel his hand run down my back. “I wanna hear more about these dreams you were having.”

I run my hand up his chest. “It was a very similar storyline every time, but the details would vary. You’d burst in, we’d spend a few moments hugging and crying and being ecstatic about being reunited… and then you’d take my pants off.”

He laughs at that. “And then?”

I lift my head and look at him. “That’s the part that would be different every time. I’ve read that pregnant women have really vivid dreams, and that pregnancy hormones make you really horny, and those two things combined? Oh my.”

He makes a deliciously wicked face at me. “Tell me a story. A dream that you remember.”

I blush. Other than yelling stuff like _oh yeah _and_ fuck me, _I’ve never been super comfortable with talking dirty. But what Michael wants, Michael gets. I think about it for a bit. “OK, I have one. But it requires a little set up. A lot of times these dreams were based on something that happened in real life… and I’m not sure if you know about this one.”

He sits up a little more, his eyes alert, looking incredulous. “I don’t know what, now?”

I laugh a little and respond, “It’s about the first night I came to your room. When you interrogated me and I, uh, slapped you.”

He nods, smiling. “Oh, yeah.”

“On that night, I walked out that door and went the wrong way. Ms. Mead had walked me up here, and it was my first time, and it’s so dark out there… I got a little lost. So I had to double back. And when I walked past your door the second time… I heard you in there.”

“You heard me…”

“Mm-hmm. You were jerking yourself off, and I was on the other side of the door, listening to you.”

“Shit,” he says, in practically a whisper. “That’s hot.”

“Is it? I was afraid you’d say it’s creepy.”

He laughs, “Maybe it’s both. So… what did that make you think of me?”

“Think? Oh, well, it was fucking exhilarating.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I heard you finish, then I ran downstairs and got myself off. Repeatedly.” His face in response to that is precious.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and then he starts unbuckling his belt. “Tell me more.”

My eyes lower and I watch his hands while I speak. “Well, I heard you. I heard you panting, and then grunting, and then moaning and coming. And it was like my brain made a recording of it, and played it for me over and over. While I laid on my back, downstairs in my room, trying to imagine what you looked like up here. What you were thinking.” By now, he’s undone his pants and is pulling out his giant erection. I make a move to take ahold of it, but he shakes his head. 

“Keep going,” he says, as he starts stroking himself.

I look back back up at his face. He’s looking me dead in the eyes and the sight of him so visibly turned on is electrifying. His crystal eyes piercing through me, his lips red, wet, his breath heavy. I want to start devouring him, but I know he wants me to continue as I am.

“So I was on my bed, naked from the waist down, dripping wet and pounding my clit with my fingers. Imagining you, grabbing your cock just like that, thinking about me. Imagining things had gone a little differently. And in my dream, all the other things I’d been imagining actually happened.”

“Like what?” he asks.

You got off on getting slapped. You stopped me from leaving. You grabbed me, threw me to the ground.” His head rolls back and he starts to groan, his mouth open. I continue, “Pushed me to my knees. Showed me what happens when I disrespect you.”

“Oh, fuck,” he says again.

“Grabbed me by the hair and shoved that cock in my mouth. Made me choke on it.”

“Fuck, there it is.”

“Yeah, there it is. You made sure I knew who my master is.” And he starts moaning loudly. I am transfixed, staring at his face, watching him gasp for air, intoxicated by the sounds he’s making. He’s not going to last much longer, and I’m looking at the lovely suit he’s wearing… we wouldn’t want to make a mess of it. I scoot a little further down, getting into position next to his legs. And then I finish my story.

“You came down my throat, made me gag on it.” As soon as I finish saying those words, I bend down and take as much of his cock into my mouth as will fit. He takes his hand off, freeing the path so I can go all the way down, and his hips buck up against me as he screams out his orgasm, making me gag every bit as much as I had in my dream.

I milk out every last drop and then sit up immediately, exclaiming, “Ohh that was delicious. You’re so fucking hot.” He’d gotten me talking dirty and now I couldn’t stop.

He’s still panting, trying to catch his breath. His eyes are pointed at the ceiling, an incredulous look on his face. Eventually he looks back at me; I’m wiping off my chin with the back of my hand, and I start giggling when we make eye contact.

He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “Damn,” is all he can say.

“You’re completely sober now, aren’t you?”

He seems to be contemplating that. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Now it’s my turn to shake my head back and forth. “Amazing.” I hop up and head over to the sink, then I pour a couple big glasses of water. I bring them back over to the bed and hand him one. “Regardless, you should hydrate.”

He laughs at me, and takes a big gulp. I do the same and drop down next to him, nestling my head into the crook of his arm. He sets the glass down and holds me tight, and we spend the rest of our evening clinging to each other, as through we’re afraid someone will come in and separate us again at any moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, the scene from Volume One that this references ("The Appointment") was the very first scene of this whole series that I wrote. I keep coming back to it time and time again as my favorite part of the story -- when Michael challenges her and she doesn't back down. And she's terrified that he will *end her* for it. But... it turns out, he's into it. <3


	3. The Kitchen

When my alarm goes off the next morning at 4:30am, I groan, smack the alarm clock until it shuts up, and start to regret staying until the end of the party last night. I roll over and look at Michael, who remains unstirred, and remember how we’d spent our evening after the party. _If you’d gone to bed early you’d missed all that so… worth it._

Showing up at work this morning is a bit of a gamble. I’d really only had a chance to touch base with Edward since I’d been back. I hadn’t talked to Connie, my supervisor. But I know that she was at the meeting last night and knows I am back. I have this vision that I’ll show up, get started, some other chefs will show up a little later and be thrilled to see me and thrilled to know that I’m back at work. It’s possible it won’t go down that way, but… I’m so eager to return to work, I’m willing to gamble.

I also hadn’t *specifically* asked Michael if I should return to work. I am expecting him to tell me at some point that he wants me to stop, and when he does, I certainly will. But until then, I plan to keep going as long as I can. The best part of my two months in “captivity” with the witches was the amount of baking I got to do. I tried new recipes and worked with ingredients I’d never even seen before, and genuinely loved getting feedback on what worked and what didn’t – particularly from Myrtle, who was my favorite. _Too bad Michael is going to kill her as soon as he gets the chance._

I get ready quietly, and slip out the door without waking Michael. Walking through the Compound, so silent at this early hour, brings back memories. Of my first morning at work, when I had one of my very first conversations with Michael in the lobby, and my heart had practically beat out of my chest. Of so many mornings spent using my time alone in the kitchen to daydream, or worry, or plan, or just to think through the chaos that had become my life. Of simpler times. Returning to the kitchen makes me feel like we really are back on track.

I head in, tie on my apron, start the coffee maker, and check the fridge door where the menu is typically posted. Thankfully, today’s plan is there. I see that they’ve lowered the quantities by half; I knew we’d lost some people, but I hadn’t realized it was that many! And the morning order is a little simplified from what I used to do; just one type of croissant and two types of muffins. I check the pantry to see what we’ve got; if the ingredients are there, I wanna bring it back up to my usual variety. And I really want to make donuts if I can, because Michael told me once that they were his favorite. _When we were lying in bed after the first time he made me come. _So many memories.

I gather everything I need on the prep table, pop in my headphones, and get started. I am alone, working in my own groove, humming along to the music and feeling like myself again, for about 45 minutes. Then Connie walks in. I freeze, yank out my headphones, and wait to see what she’s going to say.

“Oh thank Satan you’re here!!” she screams, running over to me. I laugh, and throw my arms around her in a big hug.

“I’m so glad to hear you say that!” I respond. “It seemed really presumptuous for me to just show up and get started, but… I really wanted to get back into my normal routine.”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. _Not at all._ Not having you here has sucked so much. We didn’t dare ask about getting you a replacement, so Greg and Edward and I have just been taking turns playing pastry chef and none of us *really* know what we’re doing, so… I’m so glad you’re back!” Another hug.

She asks me some questions about my time with the witches, about how my pregnancy is doing. And then I ask the question that’s been on my mind, “What was it like here while I was gone?”

She exhales, her eyes wide. “Oh, honey… it was surreal. Let me think. That first day you disappeared, it took us all a few hours to realize you were gone. By the time we did, it was too late to make any meals so we put out the freeze-dried slop that day. After that, big batches of Co-op members started leaving the compound every day to go look for you, and then support staff just started disappearing. I had a nightly check in with Ms. Mead who would tell me our numbers for the next day, and then we’d lose a few more overnight. There were some days where we were cooking for like, eight people.

“And Michael was here the whole time. I never saw him, but I heard reports from the hospitality folks – he was scary. Stomping around, screaming at everyone, never touching a bite of food.” I feel my eyes water. “Sorry, I don’t mean to upset you,” she interrupts, placing her hand on my arm.

I shake my head. “No, no, it’s fine. I really do want to know what really went down, and I appreciate you telling me.”

“We each went through a little interrogation from the Co-op. Mine was pretty quick, but they were hard on Edward.”

“Yeah, he told me about that. I’m so sorry that you all got yanked into it.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t a big deal, really. As for the kitchen, we’ve only lost one person – Matt the dishwasher. Everyone else seems to have stuck it out. And maybe Matt will even come back?”

“We’ll see. Have folks started coming back already?”

“Yeah!” She consults the notebook in her apron pocket. “I think we’re about halfway there,” she says.

I nod, look down at my prep table, and say, “I think I need to get cracking on this.”

“Of course; I’ll get out of your hair,” Connie says. “Everyone will be so excited to be eating your food again!” She heads back to her office.

I inhale a deep breath and pop my headphones back in. I exhale slowly, and set about the business of feeling normal again.

***

A fairly normal week goes by. Michael seems fine with me being back at work – if he objects, he doesn’t say anything – so I return every day. With the reduced quantities, everything goes a little faster, and my back and feet are thankful for it. But the numbers rise a little every day, as both Co-op and staff members return to the Compound.

It’s my sixth day back at work, exactly a week after the meeting where Michael announced my return. I’m about halfway done for the day, and I expect to finish before noon. Connie and two others are working on breakfast, and I am at my prep table, filling croissants, when one of the security guards walks in. I recognize him; he was the driver who picked me up at the airport, in handcuffs, and drove me to the Sanctuary on my first night back.

He makes a beeline for me. “Ms. Florence,” he says. There will be a dinner meeting tonight, up in Conference Room B on the seventh floor, and your presence is requested.”

I nod. “A meeting with… whom, exactly?”

“Your presence was requested by Ms. Mead. Please arrive at 8:00pm.”

I nod some more. “O… K…,” I say, not really sure what else to say. The guard turns and leaves. I don’t think anyone else in the kitchen even noticed he was here.

As I turn back to my croissants, my thoughts turn to Ms. Mead. She had been slow to warm to me, initially, but over time, we came to respect each other, and I’d even felt some affection from her at times. But since I’d been back, it was clear that her relationship with Michael had become strained.

Michael said that she had pressured him to continue his father’s plan in my absence, to destroy the world while I was out in it, and I can see how that might’ve been something of a deal-breaker for him. When they’d picked me up and flew me back home, the tension between the two of them had been palpable. And now, she’s making a formal request when she wants to talk to me at dinner? This seems pretty strange; a few months ago, she woulda just shown up when Michael and I were eating and asked me whatever she needed to ask me. _So this is how it’s going to be now? _

After I finish my shift, I have lunch with Edward and head up to my room for my customary post-work nap. On my walk from the elevator to our bedroom, I walk slowly, and deliberately listen at the various conference room doorways, seeing if I can identify which one Michael is in. I can never actually discern what’s being said, but I can usually hear his voice through one of the doors, and it always brings me just a little comfort to know where he is. This time around, I hear him in Conference Room A, the big one, and it sounds like he’s on a conference call.

It’s about 2:00pm when I plop down on my bed to nap. Plenty of time to rest up before my mysterious dinner.


	4. The Itinerary

When I rise, I wander into my closet to see what I can pull on for dinner that isn’t my kitchen uniform – my options are pretty pathetic. _Damn, I need some new clothes._ I pull on one of the three dresses I have that fit, step to the mirror and try to wrangle my makeup and hair into something presentable, curl up with my iPad and wait for 8:00 to roll around.

When it does, I walk into Conference Room B, which is just down the hall, and find that both Michael and Ms. Mead are already seated. Someone in hospitality has brought up a small dinner spread for just the three of us; I recognize the rolls in the bread basket and the dessert selections under the glass dome at the end of the table. It’s weird to see my handiwork in this context, and I chuckle to myself a little bit. 

Michael gestures to the empty chair near him; I sit down, and take a sip from the water glass. I look back and forth between the two of them expectantly; the invite to this dinner had felt so oddly formal, I feel like *something* must be afoot here. Michael pours Ms. Mead a full glass of red wine, then tops off his own glass, glancing at me. “Sorry to be drinking in front of you,” he says.

I smile. “No worries,” I say, taking another sip of water. 

He sets the bottle down and clears his throat. “Thanks for coming to meet with us. We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands, and we’ve been making some plans to rectify it – and they’re going to impact you.” He looks at Ms. Mead, then back at me. “To put it bluntly, your kidnapping hit this place like a bolt of lightning. It’s caused a real crisis of faith among our residents, and we need to get things back on course.”

“A crisis of faith?” I ask.

Ms. Mead chimes in. “It’s been a week since we reached out to everyone who left the compound to assist with your search-and-rescue effort, and called them back. There are six Co-op members and seven support staff who haven’t returned.”

Michael continues. “My theory is that it never occurred to them before that the Apocalypse was anything but inevitable. The realization that it could possibly not happen, or that it could even just be delayed, made them run back to their old lives. And now we need to plan to replace them all.”

“And to ensure it doesn’t happen again,” Ms. Mead chimes in.

I nod. I don’t think they’re *trying* to make me feel guilty with this conversation… but I’m feeling nonetheless sheepish about the situation. 

“So I have a few ideas,” Michael says. “We need a renewal of faith. For starters, I want to replace all the missing Co-op members with established leaders from the Church of Satan congregations. Anton and his cardinals — Ms. Mead, here, and her associate Samantha Crowe — are already on the list. Plus Hannah, the High Priestess of my congregation in Los Angeles. But we need to find quite a few more; we’re going to make sure there is a prominent Satanist in each outpost. I’ll also need a new administrative assistant, since Ms. Mead will be moving to Outpost Three.” This causes me to raise my eyebrows. Ms. Mead stares at her plate, saying nothing. 

“When it comes to the new support staff, I want to personally select every new addition,” he continues. “We need more people of faith in pretty much every job — security, hospitality, kitchen staff. I also think we need to set you up with more people who can assist you with the baby. Like a doula or nanny or someone who can help with… you know… nursing and stuff.”

I can’t believe he’s stumbling over the mention of breast-feeding. But he is right. There’s an obstetrician in the health team but I love the idea of having more support. “OK, sounds good. So how will we find all these people?”

He smiles at me and picks up his fork. “We’re going on tour.” He takes a bite of his dinner. I stare quizzically at him until he finishes chewing and swallowing. “You, me, Anton and the two cardinals. We’ll take a few weeks and go visit as many congregations as it takes to find all our new recruits. We’ll round everyone up and get them back here for our last Walpurgisnacht. Then we’ll disperse to the Sanctuary and the Outposts, and I’ll fulfill my destiny to usher in the end of times,” he finishes.

“You *have* been making some plans,” I say.

He smiles broadly. “I’m feeling very optimistic about our recovery, here. And I think our trip will be fun.”

I nod. I have to say, I agree. I love the idea of traveling with Michael, of being guests of honor at events across the country, of getting to pick and choose who deserves to come with us. “When do we leave?” 

“In a week,” Michael answers. “Today we started telling Compound residents of our plans, because if anyone here has any suggestions of people to consider, I’m open to hearing them. Feel free to ask around. We’ll go to San Francisco first, to meet up with Anton, and he’ll travel with us after that.”

I haven’t had the chance to meet Anton LaVey, but I’ve been hearing about him for years. The Satanists back in Chicago had all read his books and treated them like they were the doctrine of our church. At the time, I hadn’t been fully on board with the idea of him as the “Black Pope;” he kinda struck me as a bit of a shyster. But then he’d shown up in California one day, revealing that he’d faked his death back in the 1980’s so he could quietly await the Antichrist, and that he’d found Satan’s son, and was back to spread the word about his renewed faith. This whole ordeal was on everyone’s lips right after I first appeared at the Church of Satan in Chicago. I didn’t quite believe it at the time; it had been a real mind-fuck to eventually learn that it was all true. 

Either way, Satanists know his name, so it makes sense that he’ll be the one to introduce us to these various congregations. And I admit I’m kinda excited to meet him. 

“This all sounds good to me,” I say. “What cities are on our itinerary?”

“After San Francisco, we’ll go to Los Angeles, where Hannah is. And on this side of the country, I hope to hit New York, Washington DC, and New Orleans. What do you think about Chicago?”

I cock my head for a moment, thinking about that. “Jonathan, our high priest, was always good at keeping people positive when their faith was waning. He could be a good addition. And… what about Julia?”

Ms. Mead makes a face, trying to remember. “Julia?”

“She emailed me when I was away. Told me she’d been contacted by the Cooperative. Honestly, I’m not sure if y’all would’ve found me if I hadn’t gotten that message from her.”

The two of them look at each other, seeming surprised. “Oh?” Michael says.

“Yeah, it said that the Cooperative was out looking for me. It gave me a boost to get a little bolder in my digging and finally figure out where the fuck I was.”

Ms. Mead asks, “Did you tell her that?”

I shake my head. “No. I never responded. What happened after that all came on so fast… it kinda slipped my mind, honestly.”

Ms. Mead jots down some notes in a book she has next to her plate.

I continue. “Of course I have a few other friends there, but… I doubt we’ll bring people back just because they’re my friends.”

Ms. Mead says, “No, we won’t,” at the same time Michael says, “We’ll see.”

I smile and decide to breeze past it. “Yeah, sure, Chicago. Let’s go. I am so loving the idea of getting out, seeing the world one last time.”

Michael nods. “Me too. For too many days we’ve been trapped in here, unable to see the son or breathe fresh air. And we have years of that ahead of us, so… yeah. Let’s get out.” He resumes eating his meal, and I finally dig into mine. 

Ms. Mead is still all business. “So we need seven support people: two security, one kitchen, one hospitality,” —it occurs to me as she says that that she’s talking about Val’s slot—“one from the health unit, two from maintenance. Plus we need your doula-person, so that’s two for health. And your job?” She looks at me. I don’t know what she’s talking about so I look at Michael.

He takes a breath. “I think it’s time for you to quit working,” he says. 

I knew this was coming but I still ask, “Oh, yeah?”

He nods. “Would that be OK with you? I’ve never wanted to rob you of your opportunity to create, to hone your craft… but I think I’m going to need to pull you into more and more of my work. It sends an important signal to our community to see you by my side.”

I shrug. “I guess I’m OK with that. As long as I can go play in the kitchen from time to time.”

“Absolutely,” he answers. “So that’s two for the kitchen,” he says looking back at Ms. Mead. 

“Plus six Co-op members. That makes 15 new people we have to find. Think we can pull it off?” she asks Michael.

He downs the last of his wine. “No sweat.” 

Ms. Mead nods. “I’m going to go make the travel arrangements, then. Are we done here?”

Michael gestures at the end of the table. “Don’t you want some dessert?”

She makes a sour face. “No, thank you. I’ll be in my office for the rest of the evening, so, good night to you both.” 

She gets up from the table and Michael stands as well. He escorts her to the hallway and I watch them exchange a few words and part ways. The vibe between them still looks pretty chilly.

***

He steps back into the room. “What about you? Dessert?”

I glance at the selections and make my own sour face. “I was elbow deep in dessert all day; I’m sorry to say, they don’t look that appetizing to me.”

Michael leans in to examine them closely. “What do we have?” 

“White chocolate bread pudding and lemon custard tarts.”

“Mmmmm,” he says. “I’m gonna try them both.” He moves the tray down to where he’d been sitting, lifts the glass and sticks his fork directly into the serving tray, snagging a bite of the bread pudding. He looks me dead in the eye as his eats it, his face really hamming it up, showing intense pleasure. I roll my eyes at him. 

“You don’t have to —“ I start to say, but he cuts me off. 

“No no, I’m not done yet,” he says, and he shoves a bite of tart in his mouth next. His eyes close, his nostrils flare, and he lets out a groan. I know he’s just doing this for my amusement, but even when he’s joking, he looks pretty hot. When he opens his eyes and looks at me again, I’m cocking my eyebrow at him.

“You done?” I ask. 

“Not even close,” he says. He stands up, walks back over to the door Ms. Mead had just exited, closes it and turns the lock. He makes a beeline back to me and yanks my chair out from the table, so fast I nearly fall out of it. He makes a dramatic arm sweep across the table, noisily brushing all the dishes aside, sending some clattering to the floor and probably spilling some wine. He faces me, grabs me by my waist, lifts me like I’m nothing and plops my ass down on the table. His movements are so urgent, his arms are so strong, and my heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest. 

I reach up to him, expecting to grab his shoulders and start kissing, but he has other ideas. His hands get busy gathering my dress up around my waist, until it’s all out of the way and he can hook his thumbs in the waistband of my panties. Within seconds he’s ripped them off and is parting my thighs, dropping to his knees. _Oh fuck._

When his mouth connects with my flesh, I cry out almost involuntarily — I’m in a state of disbelief that he was able to take me from zero to totally uninhibited in a few short seconds. He dives in aggressively, and I hear muffled grunts coming from him as his lips and tongue go exploring. I don’t know what triggered it exactly, but the man is ravenous, and his longing is stirring stronger and stronger waves of longing in me. And then as fast as he got this all started, I feel him backing off a tiny bit, like he’s ready to settle in and keep this going for some time. I glance down but I can’t see him at all, my growing belly totally eclipsing my view. 

I take a deep breath and steady myself against the table, trying my best to be present in this moment. After such an aggressive start, he’s switched to lightly stroking my clit with his tongue, and it feels like such exquisite torture. He keeps that going for several minutes, causing my upper body to start writhing in anticipation. When I don’t know if I can take it any longer, he starts to increase his pressure, as though he can read my mind. The sensation he’s building is so immensely satisfying, giving me exactly what my body is craving, at exactly the speed I need it. He builds pressure slowly but steadily and the crescendo that builds inside me is like nothing I’ve experienced before; I feel like I may very well explode. Tears stream down my face, my arms flail and my hands grab at the edges of the table, my hips start bucking uncontrollably and I completely lose my mind for a few exquisite minutes. I have no idea what kind of sounds are coming out of me, but I’m sure the whole Compound can hear them. 

Panting for air, I open my eyes and look down at Michael. He’s raised his head and is looking back at me, his face still intense, his eyes afire. He wraps his arms around my waist, rests his head on my belly and hugs me tight. I feel my equilibrium starting to return, but I am still shaking, and his firm embrace helps bring me back to earth. We lie there like that, in silence, for several minutes, while I run my fingers through his hair. Eventually he props himself up on one elbow, looks around the table until he spots a dinner napkin, which he uses to tidy his face. He then scoots up closer to me, and lays at my side, looks down at me, and smiles. 

I’m at a loss for words, but fortunately he speaks first. “So… remember that time I watched you do that? On the balcony, on the day we met?”

I laugh. “Of course I do.”

He nods, slowly. “It was a real game-changer for me.”

He’d never really spoken about that night before, and prickles of excitement run through me to hear him mention it. “Oh?” I ask, not wanting to seem too eager.

He nods. “That day, the Summit, all those people looking to me for guidance, all that pressure… it was getting to me. I went looking for a place to be alone, to hide, really, and I found the two of you. It felt… like a sign. It stirred something in me that I hadn’t felt before. Or, if I’d felt it, I’d hidden it from myself.”

I nod. “Your human side.”

He nods back. “A way to work through stress and loneliness by connecting with someone. Through passion and… release. I wanted that for myself, badly.” 

I smile at him. “Well, you got it.” 

His smile shifts a bit, becomes… almost shy. “It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.”

I reply, “It was the hottest thing I’d ever _done._ Seeing you there, watching us? Holy shit I nearly lost my mind.”

“You enjoyed being watched?”

“By you? Hell yeah.”

He pauses for a moment, considering his words. “I wanted to be sure to tell you something. We’re going to head out into the world in search of new residents and if you’d like one – or two – of them as a… companion for you, that’d be fine with me. That’d be amazing, in fact.”

I respond by saying exactly what I know I’m supposed to say, “Of course, the same goes for you, my love. Anything you want — any_one_ you want — you should have.” A cringing feeling hits the back of my neck as I say this; the idea of him fucking another woman is like a knife to my heart. But I also know without a doubt that it’s what Satan wants me to say.

He nods, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

I place my hand on his chest. “So… what can I do for you right now?” I ask.

He looks around at the state of the room and chuckles, “How about we adjourn back to our room, before hospitality shows up and sees this mess?”

I gather myself and make a half-assed effort to right the room a little, picking up the strewn plates and the wine bottle off the floor. My face turns beet-red when I see that the dessert tray has been completely up-ended. I’m about to bend over to start picking it up, when Michael grabs my wrist. “Leave it,” he says. “This is nothing. You should see what kind of mess the Co-op members leave after their parties.”

I chuckle about that, take his hand, and follow him back to our room.


	5. The Project

I start the next morning as usual. I’m dreading the moment when Connie comes in and I have to tell her that I am quitting. I realize that my life today bears very little resemblance to my life before the Summit, but for as long as I’d been working in kitchens, I’d taken pride in being a reliable worker and a team player. Every boss I’d ever had had adored me. And when I started working for Connie, she too had adored me. But along the way, Michael has become my focus, and I know he would say that it shouldn’t matter that much what Connie thinks… but it does matter, to me.

Four hours into my shift, Connie walks in. I wave at her, she waves back, and then heads into her office. I see no reason to prolong this, so I follow her. I arrive at her door and say, “Hey.”

She turns around, looks at me, sees my face, and sits down. “Hey,” she says.

I sigh. “I have some bad news.”

She shakes her head at me. “Whatever it is, stop making that face.”

That surprises me. “I’m sorry?” I say.

“I can see it on your face. Some kinda Michael thing has come up and you feel guilty about it.”

“Ah, yeah. Well… you’re pretty right, there.”

She nods. “I don’t think I say this enough, but… you’re amazing. I mean, you’re an amazing chef and I love working with you, but all this other shit you’re doing — serving our lord, carrying that child — it’s all fucking impressive and fucking important. So please, stop with the guilt.”

I stand there for a moment. “Thank you,” I say. “I, I think I really needed to hear that. There’s this whole plan for me to help him with recruiting, and it means I’m gonna have to leave the Compound for a while. I feel so shitty about coming back so briefly and then leaving you hanging again.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t. Don’t spend another moment worrying about it. We’ll be fine and I’m sure you’ll be out there putting us all in a better position for whatever comes next. How much longer do I have you?”

“Just a few more days,” I answer.

“OK. We’ll make the best of it. I can’t say that everything we put out was masterful… but we managed without you before. We’ll manage again!”

“Ok, thanks. Really,” I say.

“Where are you going, if I may ask?”

“To find more recruits, to fill the slots that are vacant now. Actually… if you have any suggestions, I am open to hearing them.”

“Suggestions?”

“Yeah, of people you knew before the Summit. Exceptionally devout followers from your congregation back home. You’re from… Atlanta, right?”

She nods.

“Do you know anyone?”

She nods, her eyes watering a little. “My husband,” she says.

I sit down in the chair across from her. “I hadn’t realized you were married,” I say.

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I got the invite to the Summit, he didn’t. I know we were supposed to lie to our families and friends about where we were going, but I told him the truth.” Her eyes grow wide. “Please don’t tell Michael!”

I shake my head. “No, of course not.”

She continues. “We never understood why I got the invite and he didn’t. He was a member of the Church of Satan before I was. He’s the one who brought me to the Church! And he’s a chef as well, but not as experienced as I am. I guess they needed my skills more than his? We never really knew.”

I nod, thinking. “He could take Matt’s spot.”

She looks at me, her eyes pleading. “Could that be possible?”

I shrug. “I have no idea what Michael is planning, how he plans on finding these people, how he will evaluate them. So I, of course, can make no promises. We’re not going to Atlanta… the closest we’ll get would be New Orleans. So he’d have to come to us. And I’d have to convince Michael to invite him there. Does he have a restaurant? Have articles been written about him? Social media?”

“Yes, all of that,” she says, getting visibly excited. “He’s not an executive chef, but his restaurant was profiled in Food and Wine and it had a little sidebar about him, and how he was their Satanic sous chef. The place is called Twisted Soul.” I snag a post-it from her desk and start writing – the restaurant’s name, his name, his social media accounts, the magazine’s name.”

“I can suggest it. I’m sorry, that’s really all I can do. I can make a plea on your behalf. Do you two have kids?”

She shakes her head, “No.”

“Were you planning on having some?”

She shrugs. “Eventually?”

I nod. “That’s a selling point. Ending the world is just step one; re-making humanity in The Father’s image will come after that, and Satanist couples are kinda what we need, there.”

Her eyes grow wetter still. “Oh, thank you,” she whispers.

I take her hands in mine. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll do everything I can.”

She wipes her eyes, nodding. “I know. Thank you, so, so much.”

I smile at her. “I’m gonna get back in that kitchen now,” I say.

She smiles back at me. “Don’t work too hard.”

***

I finish up my work on the early side. Our numbers had grown every day, but we were still about 20% down from where we started, and I do appreciate the extra time it buys me. It’s noon when I wrap up, so I head to the cafeteria to see if I can find Edward.

I’m grateful to see that he’s still there, and I join him at his table. “I’ve got news,” I say, and brief him on the conversation I’d just had with Connie. Well, the first half, at least.

“Oh, no, girl… we did *not* manage well without you,” he says.

I look him with worried eyes.

He laughs a bit, “I don’t tell you that to freak you out! I just feel you should know the truth. But… you’re going to be hiring your own replacement, then?”

I nod, considering this. “Yeah, I guess so. Or at least, I’ll have a role in it.”

He shrugs. “We’ll be fine, then. I’m sure you’ll find someone amazing.” He proceeds to regale me with tales of the kitchen mishaps that went down while I was away – the time he accidentally used unsweetened chocolate in the mousse, the time Greg made muffins that somehow exploded, and so on. I got what he was doing; he wanted to let me know that he was gonna miss me, and I managed to make myself see it through that lens, rather than laying more guilt on myself.

It occurred to me to tell him about Connie’s husband, but I bit my tongue. If he learns that I am trying to find someone for her, he might ask me to find someone for him, and if that message gets out… I could be getting a lot of requests. And as much as I’d love to help everyone out, I know it just won’t be possible. I can’t bear to be in that position, so I decide to shut up about that part.

I’m finishing up the lunch on my plate, when a hush falls across the cafeteria. I see everyone’s wide eyes looking in one direction and I turn my head; Michael is standing in the doorway.


	6. The Stylist

I can't think of a time when Michael has come into the staff cafeteria before. He had sent Ms. Mead in there a few times, to get me, or to deliver messages. When she would come in, it usually caused some murmurs; Michael’s current presence appears to be blowing the entire staff's mind.

He seems totally oblivious to the attention he’s getting. His eyes scan the room, and when he spots me, he breaks into a big smile, and rushes over to our table.

Before I can say hello, he blurts out, “Tell me you’re done for the day.”

I laugh. “I’m done for the day.”

He claps his hands together and says, “I have such a surprise for you.” He’s positively giddy, and I laugh at him some more. Then he seems to finally notice that everyone in the room is staring at us, and that the place is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. He looks around and makes an exaggerated throat-clearing sound, and people immediately turn back to their plates and resume their conversations.

Michael takes the seat next to me. He turns his attention to Edward for a moment, extending his hand. “So good to see you, Edward.” _He remembers his name?_

Edward seems surprised by that as well, as he reaches out to return the handshake. “Yeah, sir, yeah, you too. Mr. Langdon.”

Michael turns back to me and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a black business card, and sets it on the table in front of me. It reads, _Sasha Valentino, Personal Stylist _in silver type_. _I look back up at him, quizzically. “What’s this?”

“When we had the idea to go on our trip, I thought you might need some new clothes. I found this woman in New York, who has worked with a few Cooperative members, and asked her to come as soon as she could. We expected it would be a week or so… but I guess she was feeling motivated, and got ready within a few days and is on her way here now. She’ll actually be here in about an hour.”

Edward seems to have regained his power of speech, “Ohmigosh, hon! Personal stylist? How fun!”

I’m nodding, still looking at the card. “She’s bringing me… clothes?”

Michael beams even brighter. “She’s bringing you everything. Formal clothes, casual clothes, jewelry, shoes… you name it. If you’re not going to wear that uniform every day anymore, you’ll need to wear something.”

“Wow,” I say. “Do I really need all this? I could just order some stuff online?”

Michael takes my hands in his, nodding. “When we’re on our tour, we need to make an overwhelming impression on everyone we encounter. They need to love us, fear us, lust after us, aspire to *be* us… we have to look the part.” He lifts up my left hand and kisses the back of it. “And I just think you deserve to have beautiful things.” The he kisses my right hand.

I smile at him, feeling my pulse quicken. “Well, you don’t have to twist my arm.”

“Excellent. Come upstairs at 1:30 and she’ll get you started.”

I nod. “Thank you. I… I can’t wait to see what she has for me.”

He starts to get up from his seat, but stops to lean down and give me a deep kiss, and I feel the room’s eyes turn toward us again.

“I could say the same thing,” he responds. He gives me a sly little look and turns back toward the door.

***

When I get off the elevator on the 7th floor, it is immediately evident that something is afoot. There are about a half-dozen trunks lining the hallway, and I see a young man in leather pants and a skin-tight t-shirt rolling one of them into a conference room. I walk toward the door that he enters and poke my head in. There is another young male assistant – this one with a mohawk – running a steamer in the corner, moving garments from a trunk to a bunch of rolling racks against the window. “Holy shit,” I whisper. This is quite the operation.

A screen has been erected in the opposite corner of the room, and out from behind it pops a woman who I assume to be Sasha. She is a curvy girl with fire engine red hair done up in victory rolls, wearing cat-eye glasses and a fitted black tankdress which shows off her tattooed arms. _Oh, wow,_ I muse. _In the days before Michael, she would’ve been *so* my type._ She fills her arms with binders from the nearest trunk, and turns to walk toward me, so I give her a little wave. “Sasha?” I ask.

Her eyes and mouth pop open wide. “Evelyn!” she says. “It’s such a delight to meet you!” She drops the binders on the table and extends her hand. Her energy is infectious; I am already getting excited.

“Yeah, you too,” I say, letting my eyes sweep around the room. “There is… a lot going on in here.”

She waves her hand. “It’s not so much as it seems. It just takes a little doing to get everything set up. Come! Sit down! She gestures to a chair at the end of the table. We sit down and immediately the leather pants assistant steps up behind me.

“Something to drink?” he asks. I look up at him, and he gestures to the credenza behind him. It is covered with a full spread of cheese, crackers, fruit, sweets, and beverages.

“Oh, wow,” I say. “Sure… some water?”

“Still or sparkling?” he asks.

Now I have to laugh a little. “Sparkling,” I answer.

He scoots away to get my drink, and I look back at Sasha, my eyebrow arched.

She gives me a knowing smile. “Settle in, girl,” she says. “You’re going to be here for a while. We’ll take some breaks, but you’re going to need to keep your strength up along the way.”

I nod, my eyes scanning the room, still not certain what I’ve gotten myself into.

“OK!” she begins. “So first, let me introduce myself properly. I’ve been in New York for fifteen years now, working as a professional stylist. I really skew toward a dark, edgy, ethereal aesthetic – here’s one of my portfolios.” She moves one of the binders in front of me, and I flip through. Its full of red carpet photos and pictures of people at Halloween parties and masquerade balls. Lots of black, lots of capes, lots of gender-bending, and Victorian and steampunk-looking stuff. And just plain punk-looking stuff.

“Wow, this is all so beautiful,” I say.

“Thanks!” she responds. She whips her head around to her assistants, who now are both standing attentively by the credenza. “Hey guys, can we have the room for a moment?” They file out immediately, as told, and close the door behind them.

She continues. “I have a handful of clients to are Cooperative members, so when Michael started asking around for styling advice, he got my name pretty much immediately.”

I make a puzzled face. “Are you a member?”

She shakes her head, “Nope.”

“But you know what it is?”

She nods. “I know what the Cooperative is, I know who Michael is, I know about the Sanctuary… I know it all, I guess.”

“How?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’m a Satanist, and I style wealthy Satanists. I spend a lot of time in the company of these people in their underwear, oftentimes with champagne… I sort of pieced a lot of it together. And then Michael filled in the gaps.”

“He told you everything?”

She nodded some more. “It’s all been really surprising to me, too. Not just who he is and what he’s here for… but the fact that he’s been willing to talk to me about it.”

“Or even the fact that *he’s* the one talking. This seems like the kind of thing he’d have his assistant or a Cooperative member take care of.”

She shrugs. “I had the same thought. He’s been oddly hands-on with this whole thing. I figured he was a closet fashion junkie?”

I smile at that. “Has he said anything to you about… joining us?”

Her eyes widen, and her voice drops. “I’ve been too afraid to ask. Do you think that’s possible?”

I shrug. “I have no idea how he is picking people to join us. Frankly, if he’d said anything to you, it’d be new information for me.”

She nods. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

I nod back. “I’ll do the same.”

“So!” She says, standing up and walking over to the door. She opens it back up and her boys file back in. “You’re going on a trip, and you need traveling clothes.” Her eyes become emphatically wide, like she saying, _This is the version of the story that these two can know. _I nod my understanding.

She opens up another binder and spreads it out in front of me. “Here’s your creative brief. I’m tasked with supplying you with ten days worth of clothes. For each day, you need daytime/traveling attire and nighttime/formal attire. Plus something to lounge or sleep in, plus footwear, hosiery, accessories, and undergarments.”

“Whoa,” I say.

She laughs. “When you lay it all out, it looks like a lot. But we’ll try not to make your head spin too much.” She gestures to the credenza on the other side of the room, where a sewing machine and dress form have been set up. “If anything doesn’t fit, we can do on-site alterations. When we leave here, you’ll have everything you need, and Michael has given us the OK to stay for multiple days if we have to.”

I nod some more.

She gestures to leather pants, “This is Tad.” And to the mohawk, “And this is Paul. Over there is a screen that you can duck behind for changing clothes, if you want to. But everything goes so much faster if you just leave your modesty at the door. For what it’s worth, they’re both 100% into dudes.”

I laugh at that. “And you?” I ask.

“Well, I may not be straight, but there is no way this process won’t involve me manhandling your goods at some point, so… I guess you just need to get used to that idea.”

I laugh some more. “It’s fine, really.”

She crosses to the other side of the credenza and picks up an iPod that is hooked to some speakers. “The thing you need to know about me is that I require pop music from the 80’s and 90’s while I work.” Out of the speakers comes Technotronic, and I laugh even harder.

“This whole thing is really making me wish I could drink,” I say.

She shakes her head. “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? But I have to say… styling your hot pregnant bod? This is the best assignment I’ve ever gotten. I’m going for… fertility goddess meets Queen of the Underworld meets Satanic high priestess. Sound about right?”

“Yeah, actually. That sounds perfect.”

“All right then. Here we go. We need to start with a solid foundation, so, step one is undergarments. It’s time to get naked, sweetie.”


	7. The Gift

Sasha starts by pulling individual lingerie bags out of one of the trunks, each containing a matching bra/underwear set, which she lays on the table. “For maternity stuff, this is the sexiest I could find that’s also higher quality. I brought a few sizes and a million colors, so if you find a set that works, we should be able to hook you up ten days worth of ‘em.” She hands me a dark purple lace set. “Wanna try these on?”

I take a moment to get over the fact that three complete strangers are going to be seeing my totally naked body, and I try them on. The pieces fit like a dream, way comfier than what I had been wearing. I look at Sasha with grateful eyes. “These feel amazing,” I say. She steps behind me to confirm that the bra straps are where they’re supposed to be, the cups are holding up just fine, and gives me a nod of approval.

Then she grabs a large wicker basket and sets it by the door, and starts piling in all the sets that I get to keep. She finds them in satin and lace, in navy, pale pink, dark silver, burgundy, and, of course, black. Then she walks over to her creative brief and starts checking them off the list. “See how fast we’re going?” she asks.

I keep the purple set on as I try on dress after dress after dress. Every time Sasha picks one up, she gives me a little primer on it. “This Renaissance-style gown has right waistline for you. You’ll look like the wife of a Medici or something. And we can cinch it at the bust which will totally make your tits pop out.” And then, “This navy georgette gown has the Grecian goddess silhouette, which should be super-comfy on your belly, and your tits will look amazing.”

After a few rounds of that, I laugh and ask, “Does the creative brief say, ‘Tits must look amazing?’”

She nods. “Essentially, yes. I believe Michael’s exact words were ‘Everyone who sees you is supposed to come in their pants, like, immediately.’”

My jaw drops. “He did not say that!”

She laughs at me. “No, he didn’t. But he is a man who knows the power of overt sexuality.”

“Fuck, you could say that again,” I respond.

When we’re about 90 minutes in, I realize how much my legs are aching, and I ask for a break. “Tad. Paul,” she says. Her assistants look at her and she throws her thumb back in a _get outta here_ gesture, and they head back into the hallway. She hands me a satin robe, I throw it on, plop into a chair, and put my feet up.

She sits down in the chair next to my feet and reaches for one of them, stopping first to ask, “May I?”

I have a bemused look on my face when I answer her, “Sure?”

She pulls both of my feet into her lap, holds her arms out and shakes her hands at the wrists for a moment, then starts putting pressure on the bottom of my right foot. My head lolls back and drops against my chair, and I let out an unhinged-sounding “Unnnngh.”

She smiles at me. “I cannot imagine how exhausting it must be. To be you,” she says

I give her a little smile in return. “Serving Michael is the greatest honor that The Father could’ve bestowed upon me, and I am grateful for it, every minute. But yeah. It’s a lot.”

She gestures toward my belly. “Not only are you carrying, like, _our collective future _in there, but the fortitude that it must require to grow the Antichrist’s child... it’s fucking bad-ass. I think everyone will totally lose their shit over the two of you. No matter what you’re wearing.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m excited for this part. We’ve had some rough patches along the way, but I feel like Michael is on this very optimistic path right now. We both feel that we know our purpose, and we’re on target to achieve that purpose… it makes our days feel so meaningful.” Sasha digs her knuckles into the arch of my foot and I let out another groan.

“You’re amazing,” I say to her. “All of this?” I continue, gesturing around the room, at all the clothes, “It’s… so great. Too much, really.”

“Nope, you’re wrong,” she says. “This is exactly enough.”

I sit for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying the silence and the waves of relief washing over my aching feet. When I open my eyes again, I see Sasha, looking down at her hands at work with a satisfied little smile on her face. “So, how did you come to be a Satanist?” I ask her. I always love hearing people’s Satanic origin stories.

She takes a deep breath. “Well… Step one was getting fucked over by the Catholic Church.” I nod at her; I have heard a lot of Satanic origin stories that start this way. She continues, “My parents sent me to Catholic school. When I was young, there was a girl there who became my best friend, and in middle school we started… experimenting a little. We didn’t even make out; we would just sometimes show each other what we had learned about masturbation, I guess. And as we got into high school, I figured out I was queer. And eventually, I came out to her and… she went berserk. Her mother was the school’s director of religious education, and she told her mom. They told my parents, told the school’s administration, and then they all sent me upstate to this, like, deprogramming camp.”

“Oh, shit,” I say.

“Yeah. It was a six-week program and it was… horrific. And when it was over, I came back to my high school, and everyone had decided to turn their backs on me. No friends, no dates, no one would even talk to me… just isolation for two more years. I was demonized for something I couldn’t even control. And once I graduated, I started art school… and I explored the fuck out of that left-hand path.” That makes me laugh.

“There was a teacher at my college who put on a piece of performance art that contained some Satanic rituals. He ended up getting in big trouble for it, but I started going to his office hours and pleading for him to tell me what he was a part of, over and over, until he finally did. He took me to my first service at the Church of Satan. And I just knew. I knew immediately that it was where I belonged.”

“And you’ve been going ever since?”

She nods. “Until I met Michael, my goal was to become a High Priestess, or even a Cardinal. Now… it seems like there’s little point in trying. I guess my only goal now is to convince him, or the Cooperative, or whoever? That I should be allowed to stay with y’all.”

I nod. “Seriously, I’ll see what I can do.”

“How about you?” She asks, switching her hands to my other foot.

I pause a moment before responding. I never know how people are going to react to my Satanic origin story. ”I’m a terrible excuse for a practicing Satanist.”

She looks at me. “What do you mean?” 

“I’ve been to the Church exactly three times.”

Her eyes are wide, incredulous. “How can that be?” She asks. 

I shrug. “I had a friend who was a member, and she convinced me to come with her to a service. Basically, as soon as I walked in the door, Satan spoke to me.”

“Oh, wow,” she says.

I nod. “He told me that he needed me. That he had a vision of a path he wanted to put me on, a potential he wanted me to realize. And then I gave myself over to him in a Black Mass — that’s the only ritual I’ve ever participated in.”

She sits quietly, taking this information in. “You’re, like, a natural.” 

I shrug. “I am brimming with faith, no doubt. But The Father has always spoken to me in his own time; I don’t bother trying to summon him with daily incantations or honor him with weekly rituals. All of that stuff is great, for those that it helps, but… it’s not me. And from what I’ve seen, it’s not Michael, either. Or, at least, it wasn’t.”

“You think that’s changing?”

“In the Compound, we’ve had what he refers to as a ‘crisis of faith,’ recently. We lost some people. I think he’s realizing that some members need a little help, to reaffirm their beliefs from week to week. And that’s what this trip is about, partially. To find some new members, and to see what’s working in the most devoted congregations. 

“And,” I continue, “I personally think he needs to show off more. It’s amazing how much it snaps people back to their faith when they see him do a little magic.”

“What kind of magic can he do?”

My cheeks redden. A lot of what I’ve seen him do is not suitable for sharing. “You name it. He can move things with his mind, take lives with his touch, journey to hell and back. I’ve seen it all.”

The look on Sasha’s face is priceless. “I can see how that would… make an impression.”

I laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.” Fearing I’ve said too much, I steer the subject back to the Church. “So now I have to do some serious cramming. I’m going to meet Anton LaVey in less than a week and I haven’t read any of his books.”

She nods. “Read _The Satanic Bible_ and _The Satanic Rituals._ Stay the fuck away from _The Satanic Witch._ That book… I prefer to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say.

She lays my feet back onto the chair next to her. “Ready to get back to it?” she asks.

I nod. “That was amazing, thank you so much.”

She winks at me. “Anytime.”

***

When we start back up, we finish the formal dresses pretty quickly and move on to daytime clothes. We’re moving through them at a good pace, and feeling confident about our progress. A patch of late-afternoon punchiness starts to hit all of us, and Sasha cranks the music up a little louder. Even her assistants are bobbing their heads as they work, hemming away at the sewing machine and packing up trunks with rejected clothes.

When I’ve selected my last day dress, I strip back down to my underwear and wait for Sasha to pull out the last pieces of sleep/loungewear for me. She hands me a particularly silly marabou pajama set, and I hold it up, giggling, and signing along to “I Just Can’t Get Enough” by Depeche Mode. I spin around to the music, and see Michael standing in the doorway, looking bewildered.

“What the fuck?” he says, as he steps further into the room and beholds the spectacle. Sasha quickly turns the music down. Michael stands frozen for a bit, staring at me, drinking in the sight of my new underthings. I smile at him, a little sheepishly. His eyebrows pop up, and he starts walking toward me.

Sasha steps up next him and sticks out her hand. “Mr. Langdon, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. In person.” I can hear the anxiety in her voice, but Michael seems oblivious. His eyes are only on me as he ignores her and continues walking, making a beeline in my direction.

“I don’t want to know what the hell any of this is,” he says, gesturing at the mess strewn about the room. “But this, I like.” He traces his fingers along the lace on the bra, his eyes transfixed and his breath heavy.

For a moment, everything else in the room disappears. His touch against my skin, his hot breath, and the urgency in his voice – they grab ahold of me and I forget where I am. Michael wraps one arm around me, runs his hand down my back and lewdly grabs my ass. He pulls me close to him and kisses me, aggressively, while his other hand continues its journey along the line of my bra, digging his fingers under a strap, and starting to pull it off my shoulder.

But then I am snapped back to reality. I put my hands on his chest, and push him back a bit. “My love,” I whisper in his ear. “We’re not alone in here.” He pulls me back against him, and I can feel his erection pressing into my hip. He leans down and lets out a soft groan into my ear. I take a deep breath in and out, steadying myself. I place my hand on his cheek and tilt his face so that I can look into his eyes. I whisper to him, “Michael, _you_ brought these people here. Please, don’t ignore them.”

He makes a grumbling sound at me, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head. He screws them shut tight, and stands perfectly still for a moment. Then he opens them and looks at me with a new kind of alertness on his face. He backs away from me, reaches down and makes some, um, adjustments, then he spins around and finally addresses Sasha.

“Sasha!” he exclaims. “You must forgive me; your work here is so effective,” he says, gesturing at me, “I forgot myself for a moment.” He walks toward her, his hand extended. They shake hands; she is looking up at him with a smile that is noticeably tinged with confusion, and maybe a little fear.

“Sir, it’s an honor,” she says. “My assistants and I came as quickly as we could, eager to assist you in any way we can.” Michael looks over at Tad and Paul, both of whom appear to be frozen where they stand, barely able to muster a nod in Michael’s direction.

“How gracious of you all, thank you.” Michael says. “Your efforts will not go unrewarded,” he continues, mysteriously. “How is the project going?” he asks, turning his attention back to me.

“Good, I think,” I answer him. “I think we’re nearly done with clothing; we’re about to move onto shoes and things next.”

Sasha nods. “Eve is making quick work of this whole process; she’s a real trooper.”

Michael seems pleased. “OK, great then. Are you imagining you’ll need to stay here tonight?”

Sasha seems uncertain how to respond. “We may be able to finish this evening… but I don’t think we ought to drive straight home afterwards. We should probably crash someplace tonight and start back in the morning.”

Michael nods. “Absolutely, no problem.” He whips out his phone and taps a few keys. “Ms. Mead will get you all set up. Stay in here, keep on working; she’ll have hospitality bring you up some dinner shortly, and then you can adjourn to some available rooms downstairs.” He turns to me. “Eve, can we have a word?” his head tilted toward the door.

“Absolutely,” I say, and walk over to where I’d discarded my robe, wrapping myself back up. Michael says a round of quick goodbyes and follows me into the hallway, his hand on the small of my back.

Once the door is closed behind us, I turn and face him. He has the goofiest little smirk on his face. “What?” I ask him. He says nothing, just keeps smirking at me. “What is going on?” I ask, a little exasperated. He takes my hand, jerks his head to the left, to indicate I should follow him.

We walk down to the next conference room, which has a waiting area in front of it. He sits down on a little sofa, and positions me in front of him, guiding my legs and easing me down until I am straddling his hips, essentially sitting in his lap. He places his hands on my hips and looks up at me for a bit, still smirking.

Finally, he speaks up. “What do you think of her?” he asks.

“Sasha? Oh, she’s great,” I say, without hesitation. “I love all the stuff she brought, and going through it all has been such a whirlwind. When it starts to get overwhelming, she’s really good at stepping back, switching it up. She’s made it a lot of fun.”

He nods. “But what do you think of _her_?” he repeats.

I finally get what he’s asking. “Oh, she… she’s lovely. I’ve been enjoying getting to know her. We have a lot to talk about.”

“And?” he probes.

“And yes, I think she’s hot.”

He smiles, seeming so proud of himself. “I knew you would. I brought her here for you. I mean, sure, you need clothes… but mostly I want you to have her. As a gift”

“Have her… here? Or at the Sanctuary?”

He shrugs. “I leave that up to you. If you want to bring her, we can place her in hospitality.”

My heart flutters, thrilled at the possibility that I might have the power to bring her with us. “I think I might like that,” I say.

He smiles up at me. “Good. But don’t tell her yet. Finish up in there, have dinner… then bring her to our room.” He runs his hands up my back. “We’ll tell her together.” He pulls me in closer to him. “You can give her a proper welcome.” And he kisses me, much more slowly and tenderly than he did back in the conference room.

When he breaks away, I look down at him with a smile, and touch his face. “This is… very sweet of you. In a decidedly nontraditional sort of way.”

He chuckles up at me. “Well, I’m a decidedly nontraditional person. In most respects. I have to admit, though, that when I walked in there and saw you two, my immediate impulse was to… mark my territory, so to speak.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Mark your territory?”

He nods. “Make it crystal clear that you belong to me, first and foremost.”

I stroke his face. “Well, I think you pulled that off. But I don’t think you have to worry about anyone misunderstanding who I am here to serve.” _At least, not anymore._

I wrap my arms around him, and we hold each other tightly for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of each other’s embrace. Eventually he lifts his head. “I need to get back to work,” he says. “And so do you.” I drink in one last kiss before getting up and walking back toward the conference room.

“Until tonight,” he calls after me. I look over my shoulder at him and the smirk is back on his face. I laugh at him, then turn and head back into my whirlwind of clothes.


	8. The Heart

When I enter the conference room, Sasha, Tad, and Paul are huddled together on the far end of the table, whispering. I give them a little wave, and Sasha hops up and comes running over to me. Before she even gets to me, I start speaking first, wanting to head off her questions. “I’m sorry about that,” I say to her. “He usually… exercises more discretion than that.”

She shakes her head. “Girl, no need to apologize. I swear to our Dark Lord, I coulda just sat here and watched you two go at it.”

I laugh. “He has a way of lowering the inhibitions, doesn’t he?”

She nods. “That’s the kinda thing I’d usually find embarrassing. But just then, I totally wanted to pull up a chair and stare at y’all. It was intoxicating.”

I clear my throat and adjust my robe. “OK! Back to the task at hand here. Where are we? What do we have left? And what the hell time is it, anyway?”

We make a plan to keep going, hoping to power through shoes, hosiery, and handbags before our dinner arrives. Sasha explains, “That’ll only leave jewelry for after dinner, and I gotta tell you, jewelry is the part I have been looking forward to the most. I have never before had a budget like yours to work with and, well, I went a little nuts. You’re gonna flip your shit.”

I make a quizzical face at that. “What is our budget, if I might ask?”

She smiles at me. “I am under strict orders to not disclose that. But lemme just say… when I went to see my jewelry guy, I got to say ‘the sky’s the limit’ to him, which I’ve never said before.”

My eyes widen. “Shit,” I say.

“Right?” she responds.

***

Sasha may be excited about the jewelry, but I gotta say, the shoes are getting me pretty amped up, too. She’s brought a bunch of these gorgeous Victorian-style pumps, with sexy-but-solid little French heels that won’t break my ankles. And the _boots._ I stop her at four pairs – I love every pair she’s brought and I could easily take more, but there’s a point where it starts to seem beyond excessive. I also throw in a few delicate little ballet flats, and call it done.

It’s about 8:00pm when dinner arrives. Ms. Mead comes in with the hospitality staff and talks to our guests while our meal gets set up. She hands them their room keys and explains what the check-out procedure will be in the morning. I’m not paying too much attention to her, until the end, when I hear her say, “…and that’s when security will return your phones to you.”

_Oh yeah,_ I remember. They’ve been totally disconnected from the outside world the whole time they’ve been here. I see Tad and Paul quivering, just a teeny bit; I am sure they’re suffering to be without their digital lifelines.

After Ms. Mead leaves, the four of us sit down around one end of the giant conference table, and start digging in. It’s quiet for a moment, so I turn my attention to Tad and Paul. “So what’s your story?” I ask them both, simultaneously.

They look at each other, look at Sasha, look back at me. Tad (leather pants) finally speaks up. “I graduated from the Fashion Institute last year, and have been working with Sasha since I was in my second year. I work on my own designs as time permits, but Sasha keeps me busy.”

I nod, chewing my food slowly, realizing that I regret asking him the question. “And how did she find you?”

He chuckles a bit. “Same as we all found each other, the Church of Satan.”

It’s hitting me – these two adorable little hardworking gay Satanists are not long for this world. Somehow, I’ve been given the power to save Sasha, but I cannot save them. _What I wouldn’t give to have a drink right now._

My guilt must be written all over my face, or Sasha must’ve figured out how to read my mind, because at that moment she speaks up, “You know, it’s been a long fucking day and I don’t think I need too much more help with jewelry. If you two,” she says, gesturing to Tad and Paul, “wanna finish eating and head down to your rooms, that’s fine with me. We can finish packing up in the morning.”

The two of them begin shoveling the rest of their meals down, eager to get the fuck outta here. I shoot Sasha a grateful expression, and she gives me a little nod of understanding. Within a few minutes, they’re gone, and we have the room to ourselves.

I take a deep breath in and exhale slowly, trying to steady my nerves. “You OK?” she asks.

I nod. “I haven’t interacted with lay people very much since coming here. It’s kinda easy to get swept up in Michael’s world and forget about everyone else out there, and what awaits them. We’re heading out into the world in just a few days, and for a select few, we’re going to be saviors. It’s hard, being reminded about those we cannot save.”

“Do you know how Michael is deciding? Who stays and who goes?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No idea. He’s been super-vague about it. All I know is that we’re looking for people who have an unshakable commitment. People who won’t doubt Michael and the task before him. People of the utmost faith.”

She nods. “And where are you? With your faith?”

I raise my eyebrows, surprised that she’s asked such a bold question. She doesn’t appear to be challenging me, though, just curious. So I think for a moment, and answer her. “I have no doubt that I was put on this earth to serve Michael. It’s an honor, truly. And I have no doubt that _he_ was put on this earth to fulfill the prophecy, to execute his father’s plan. And if he were to decide tomorrow that he doesn’t want to go through with it… Satan would just send another son. The world is ending, one way or another. And all I can do is fulfill the role for which I am intended.”

Sasha makes an open handed gesture. “Well, there you go. I understand that. Tad and Paul have no idea what’s going on, here, but I know _they_ would understand that. I don’t want you to walk around, carrying this burden of being the one who can’t save all the deserving souls. Even if I can’t be a part of it, I welcome the new world with open arms, as all Satanists should.” She downs the rest of her glass of wine. “Besides,” she continues, “I’ll see you in hell.”

I don’t really know what else to say to that, so I laugh. She stands up and reaches for my hand; it’s time to get back to work. But as I rise, I pull her in close and give her a firm hug. Feeling her warmth wrapped around me, feeling the relief that comes with hearing her say that she understands my position… it’s soothing in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. When we finally pull away from each other, I can feel my eyes welling up with tears. She strokes my cheek, and we lock eyes for a moment. My desire to kiss her is strong, but something tells me that Michael wants me to wait. So I lower my eyes and take a step back.

“Hold that thought,” I whisper to her. Then I clear my throat and start walking to the other end of the table.

She joins me at the other end, grabbing the last trunk off the credenza on her way, a smaller trunk with a black metal exterior and a combination lock. She pauses for a moment to enter the code, looks at me with an excited _get ready!_ grin on her face, and pops it open. The first thing she pulls out is a large piece of black velvet cloth, which she unfolds and spreads across the table. Then she points to the nearest chair and says, simply, “Sit.” I do, and she props a mirror up in front of me. She steps back over to the credenza, picks up her iPod, and starts the music back up – this time it’s Siouxsie and the Banshees.

“OK, I’m just gonna lay it all out,” she says, and starts pulling out box after box, laying each one’s contents down on the velvet, then moving on to the next. Within a few minutes, my eyes behold an overwhelming array of antique silver, smooth stones in bold colors, elaborate nature-inspired settings, filigreed details, sparkling faceted gems, strands of black pearls, oversized rings, motifs ranging from moths to snakes to pentagrams… and she just doesn’t stop.

When she runs out of room on the velvet swatch, she turns to me. “Damn. I got almost all of it to fit.”

I look at her, my jaw dropped. “Motherfuck, this is impressive.”

She balls up her hands and holds them up in a little _squee! _gesture. “Can I show you my favorite one?” She reaches across in front of me and grabs a silver chain with a small pendant at the end. She places it into my hand and I have to look for a second before I can tell what it is. I see silver threads wrapped around a sparkling red form, and in a moment, it hits me – it’s a human heart. “The arteries and veins are platinum and the rest of it is formed from faceted rubies,” she explains.

“Oh, wow,” I say, breathless. It’s so small, it wouldn’t have caught my attention otherwise, among all this splendor, but it really is beautiful. “I love it,” I say. She steps behind me and sweeps my hair aside so she can put it on for me, and I look at it in the mirror. She reaches around to my chest to center it on its chain and once again, I find myself enveloped in her embrace and eager to turn around and kiss her. _Patience,_ I tell myself.

I spend our last hour of our day looking at each piece, oohing and ahhing, and getting advice from Sasha on which pieces would go best with which outfits. “Knowing me, I’ll just throw everything on at once like a kid playing dress-up, and look ridiculous,” I say.

She shrugs. “You kinda can’t go wrong, here. Opulence is a mood. And among these crowds, you can work it in your favor.”

So I end up keeping about two-thirds of the jewelry, which she packs back into the metal trunk for me. “You should keep this one, with the lock. And when you travel, have one of your security guards carry it.” I nod. I have never owned anything particularly precious before. She hands me a slip of paper with the six-digit combination, “07/06/88.” “My birthday,” she explains.

As she makes on last sweep of the room, tidying up the stuff that will be left in there overnight, my heart starts pounding. I need to bring her back to our bedroom, but I’m not clear on what I should tell her. “I wanna show you something?” “Michael needs to talk to you?” “You’re sleeping with us tonight??” Michael hadn’t given me very specific instructions, but my gut tells me that I should reveal as little as possible.

As I am standing by the door, fretting about how to bring it up, she interjects. “I’ll help you bring everything to your room, now.” _Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. _She grabs the baskets of shoes and underthings, I grab the jewelry case and push the rolling rack full of dresses, and we’re able to move it all in one trip.

As we’re walking down the hall, she’s trying to find the words to say a proper good-bye to me. “This really has been an amazing day,” she starts. I decide to tip my hand a little bit.

“The day is not over,” I say to her.

She looks surprised by that, but doesn’t say anything. When we get to our bedroom door, I unlock it, open the door and step aside. “After you,” I say.


	9. The Boundaries

Sasha steps into our bedroom, arms still full with the two large baskets she’s lugging, and I follow her in, pushing the rack of clothes. “Over here,” I tell her, and we turn off to the side of the entryway and deposit all the stuff in an empty corner of the room. Finally unburdened, we look at each other, exchanging triumphant smiles for having completed our day’s tasks.

And then we both scan the room and spot Michael. He is sitting sideways on the couch in front of the fireplace, with his legs up and his laptop open on his lap. He holds a half-full glass of red wine in his hand, and I see the bottle on the coffee table in front of him. The best part, though, is what he is wearing – his satiny pajama pants and nothing else. His hair spills down his bare chest, glistening in the firelight, and he looks like something out of a harlequin romance novel. And I am struck, not for the first time, by how striking it is see him barefoot. It’s like seeing the Queen of England barefoot. Being allowed to see this great and powerful figure in such a casual state… it feels like such a privilege. I look to Sasha to see how she’s taking the scene in; she appears to be frozen in awe. I place my hand on her arm and whisper to her, “Breathe.”

I start across the room toward him, excitedly announcing, “We’re all done!”

Michael nods at me and responds with a slightly condescending-sounding, “Congratulations.”

I roll my eyes and retort, “You clearly have no idea how much effort it takes to be fabulous.” When I arrive at his side, I lean down and give him a quick kiss. “Are we interrupting you?”

He shakes his head. “I have a few more things to do, but you’re fine.” He looks at Sasha. “Care for some wine?”

“Sure,” she says. “Thank you.” Michael shuts his laptop and hops up to walk over to the bar. I sit down in the spot his feet had just occupied, and look over at Sasha, who is slowly walking toward me. I try to catch her eye, but she can’t seem to look away from Michael. He comes back over to us holding a seltzer, which he hands to me, and another wine glass, which he fills for Sasha from the bottle on the table.

When we all have our drinks, he holds his up and looks at Sasha. “Seriously, cheers to you, Sasha. You really came through for us today, and you have my gratitude.”

We clink glasses, and Sasha responds, “Thank you, sir. It was an honor.”

He shakes his head at her. “Michael. Call me Michael.”

She nods and her eyes drift down to the table, her anxiety palpable. Michael looks at me, waits just a beat, and then reaches down and grabs his laptop. “I tell you what. I’ll step out on the balcony and finish my work; you two stay here. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll join you when I’m done.” I look up at him and smile knowingly, and as he starts to step away from us, he trails his fingers up my arm and across my shoulders, sending shivers up my spine.

Once he’s closed the balcony door, Sasha seems to regain her power of speech. “Won’t he get cold out there?”

I have to laugh at that. “Nah.” I pat the couch cushion next to me and she finally sits down. “Are you OK?” I ask her.

She takes a deep breath in and out. “Am I acting like a total freak right now?”

“No, no. You just seem kinda, well, _terrified_.”

“I am, you’re totally right, I am. Being in his presence is… I don’t even know how to describe it.”

I nod. “Oh I do. You’re fairly certain he can read your mind and is judging you at every moment.”

“Yes, that,” she says.

“And then he looks at you and you feel his eyes piercing, like, right through your soul?”

A smile starts growing on her face. “Yes, that, too.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that you get used to it?”

She finally chuckles a bit. “That seems impossible.”

I place my hand on her arm again. “Seriously, you’re fine. He’s impressed by you, he wants you to hang around. Please just try to relax, and enjoy yourself. You’re here as our guest.”

She takes a big swig of wine. “I’ll do my best.”

I look around. “I have to admit that there is something about this room. It’s got a vibe, like the expectations are so high. The first time I came in here, I… didn’t make the best impression.”

Hearing me acknowledge this seems to help her relax her a bit more, and she chuckles again. “Oh yeah?” she asks, and I tell her the story of the first time I was in here, when Michael got all pompous with me and I slapped him. I decide to end the story at the point where I stomped out of the room, omitting the part where I’d listened at his door. 

“Holy shit,” she exclaims. 

I laugh. “Yeah, a few days later Ms. Mead was at my door, telling me to pack my stuff. I was convinced I was going to get banned or murdered. But instead she brought me up here.”

“Wow,” Sasha says, contemplating that. “And she told you that you were going to be Michael’s… wife?”

“That I had been chosen by Satan to stand ‘by his side,’” I explain. “Partner and companion, yes. Baby momma, yes. But ‘wife’ is a word that’s never entered the equation.”

She shakes her head, clucking her tongue. “Another unwed mother,” she jokes.

That makes me laugh out loud, and I run my hands over my belly. “This poor kid.”

“How has the pregnancy been going?”

“I can’t complain,” I answer her. “I’m not quite in the third trimester yet, and so far everything has been pretty tolerable. I’m over the nausea part and I’m not super-uncomfortable yet. But I understand that part is coming.” 

“You seem well. Like, you look all luscious and vibrant and not at all stressed out and exhausted, like I would be.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Luscious, huh?”

She reddens. “Sorry, I’ve just been crushing on your body all day… am I allowed to say that?” She takes another swig of wine.

I’m thankful that one of us had worked up the nerve to acknowledge it, and I’m pretty surprised that it’s her and not me. “You’re allowed,” I answer, setting down my drink. 

She sets hers down as well. “I think I need to slow down.” 

I reach out and touch her face, turn her head and look into her eyes for a moment. “Please don’t,” I say to her, then I _finally_ lean in and kiss her. After spending the whole day feeling the chemistry between us, admiring her curves and her smile and her hair, I feel a floodgate open inside me and I let my arousal take over. After about 30 seconds of making out like horny teenagers, Sasha rips her face away from mine and looks over her shoulder.

“Wait, wait. Is he going to kill me for this?”

I smile at her. “No. I assure you, Michael is 100% OK with this.” She nods, considering what that could mean. I use this momentary pause to stand up, offer her my hand, and say, “Come on.”

She follows me to the bed, the very bed I share with Michael every night. We both turn our heads and look out the glass doors to the balcony, where we can see his back silhouetted against his glowing laptop. “He’s going to come back in here,” she says.

“I expect he will,” I say. “But I can tell him not to, if you prefer.” I sit down on the bed and give her a moment to absorb what’s happening, to decide how she wants to proceed. I take her hand and she looks back at me. “You’re our guest, Sasha. I’m serious – you call the shots tonight.”

She reaches out and touches my face. “I want you,” she says.

I smile up at her. “Good.”

“I like the idea of him being _present_, but… that’s all the more my brain can contemplate right now.”

“Perfect,” I say, moving my hands to her hips and positioning her in front of me. I resume kissing her, and I’m pulled right back into horny teenager mode, enchanted by her exotic perfume, soft lips, and the urgency of her hands, moving down from my face and exploring my body. I lean back onto the bed and pull her down on top of me. She immediately hugs me tight and rolls us both over so I am on top, a surprise move that makes me gasp.

She places her hands on my belly. “I don’t wanna squish you,” she says, and I laugh gently, running my hand down to her thigh and grabbing the bottom of her dress. She helps me yank it up and pull if off over her head, and I look down to see that she’s left wearing her bra, panties, and riding boots—all black, of course—and I gotta say… it’s a good look.

I trace my hands back down her body, pausing for a moment to check out the newly-exposed tattoos on her breasts and belly. “Gorgeous,” I say aloud without even meaning to, admiring the tangled web of roses, sigils, stained glass windows, and so much more that adorns her skin. I scoot down a little more and get to work unlacing her boots, smiling to think of all the times I’ve been in this exact same position with Michael. _I’m a sucker for a sexy pair of boots. _

Once her feet are free, I throw my leg over her and sit up, straddling her waist. Now it’s her turn to pull at my dress, and I make quick work of yanking it off over my own head. She lets out a long exhale and runs her hands up over my belly and my breasts, then reaches around behind me and pulls me back down on top of her, resuming kissing me while she gets to work unhooking my bra.

Michael and I had not really made a plan for what was going to happen here. My gut had told me to hold off on kissing Sasha until I was here, and now that I am here… I’m not really sure how far I am supposed to take this. I don’t know when he’s going to step in and make his desires known. In one moment, as she’s fiddling with my bra hooks, I am wondering if I should stop her from removing any more of my clothing. And in the next moment, I feel another hand slide up my back and effortlessly finish the job.

I whip around and look behind me; Michael is standing next to the bed, leaning over us with a devilish grin on his face. “I thought she could use a hand,” he says. I search his face for a sign of how I should proceed here, and I see eyes that are bright with humor and curiosity, but also compassion. In this moment, I realize that this is not some kind of test of whether I can fulfill his expectations, because he doesn’t have any, either.

A feeling of empowerment washes over me, and I look down at Sasha and give her a little wink. I turn back and face Michael. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

He looks back at me, surprised, but visibly delighted. “I’m sorry…” he starts to say.

I shake my head at him, cutting him off. “I don’t need you to be sorry, I need you to know your place,” I snap. _Where the fuck is this coming from? _I point at the other side of the bed. “That’s your side. I’ll allow you and your male gaze to sit over there, but that’s it. No touching me without asking permission first. And no touching her _at all. _You got it?”

He brings his face right up close to mine. “Did you just tell me to _know my place?_” His jawline is fixed and his words are firm, but his eyes are dancing playfully.

“Yes,_ my lord, _I did. If you have a problem with it, I’ll just take her downstairs, and you can sleep alone tonight.”

His eyebrows rise, and it’s clear he’s impressed by my change in demeanor. He does as he’s told and walks to the other side of the bed. He climbs in and lies down on his side, props himself up on one elbow, then waves his hand in an _as you were _gesture. I watch him for a moment longer, and it’s clear he’s struggling to keep a straight face. But he pulls it off.

I look back at Sasha and open my eyes crazy-wide, communicating _Holy shit what did I just do?_ with just one glance. “Just pretend he’s not here,” I say to her, trying to infuse a touch of disgust into my voice. She, too, looks like she’s about to start laughing, and I have to say, I’m kinda proud of myself for the dynamic I’ve created here. She seems comfortable, boundaries have been established, Michael seems entertained, and I am _so turned on._

My unhooked bra is dangling from my shoulders, and I rip it off and throw it to the ground, sighing in exasperation. I grab Sasha’s face with both hands and resume kissing her, amped-up passion flowing through me much stronger than before. She moans into my mouth, clearly able to discern that I mean business this time. I drop my head down and kiss her neck, and she’s panting into my ear. I slide my hands under her and have no trouble unhooking her bra; she lets out a gasp when her breasts are finally freed, and I do the same. She’s so much curvier than I am, and the soft, round flesh that come spilling out at me… it sends me over the edge. I grab them roughly, feeling the heaviness of each one in my hands, pushing first one then the other toward my open mouth. I start by licking her nipple before switching to sucking, and when that starts to make her groan a little, I bite lightly and she cries out. I repeat that process on the right side, feeling her hips start writing underneath me.

I tip my head to the side for just a moment to check on Michael. He has not moved one inch, frozen in place, his eyes intensely focused. I can’t help but also notice his giant erection, looking like it might just burst through the satin pants. But so far, he’s kept it contained, where it belongs. _Good boy._

I slide back up so that I am face-to-face with Sasha, and I drop my head down to whisper into her ear. “I’m going to go down on you now,” I warn her. I lift my head so I can see her face; her eyes are wide and she is nodding emphatically. I smile down at her, then give her a lewd, open-mouthed kiss while I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties. As I scoot my body further and further down, I pull her panties down with me, and when they’re totally off, I part her thighs and get on my knees between them. I reach under and grab her ass, scooting it a little to the side so that she’s positioned at a bit of a diagonal, my one concession to Michael, who wouldn’t get a very good view otherwise.

I spread her legs wider and start putting my fingers to work. I waste no time and plunge one finger inside her right away, gasping at how wet she’s gotten. Her eyes are closed and she lets out a soft, “Mmmm,” as I pull my finger back out and use it to spread the wetness up and down her labia, priming her for the action to follow. I pull away for just a second, grabbing my trusty rubber band from off my wrist and using it to pull my hair back. She opens her eyes and looks down at me impatiently; I give her another little wink, then I glance over at Michael again.

He hasn’t moved, and his pants are still on, but he’s slid his hand inside the waistband and appears to be stroking himself. I sit straight up and face him. “Did I say you could do that?” I yell, demandingly. “Cut that shit out, you sick fuck,” I bark at him. His eyes grow so wide in a mixture of desire and astonishment. He takes his hand out, but doesn’t have anything to say for himself.

I look back over at Sasha who has the same astonished look on her face. I shake my head in mock disgust, finish tying my hair back, and resume my position. I get right to it and dive my face in, starting as far down as I can reach, right on top of her asshole. My lips and tongue start tenuously and then work their way up to giving it the full treatment, and guttural groans escape from her. I move my hands from the tops to the bottoms of her thighs, gripping her flesh firmly and spreading her open even wider.

I move up and start giving her vagina the same lips and tongue treatment, and her wetness is flowing, dripping down my chin and onto our sheets. Her guttural sounds change to bewildered moans, and she starts grinding her hips against my face. With that, I move up again and finally give her clit some attention — she cries out from the relief it brings. I pound it with my tongue, stopping occasionally to suck it up in between my lips, and she is just going nuts, moaning and panting and gripping the sheets. I seem to have found the perfect pressure and angle, as she lets me know by crying out, “Yes, there. Right there!” and I keep it up. I flick my tongue, on repeat as her pleasure mounts, ramping up higher and higher; it gets her there, and her orgasm crashes down like a wave, her breath shuddering and her body shaking.

While it’s thrilling to give her so much pleasure, my body is crying out for its own release. I still have my panties on and I can feel that they’re soaked through. I rise up and look down at her, still panting and regaining her equilibrium. I wipe my mouth and chin on the back of my hand and look over at Michael, still frozen in place, with his hands where I can see them and eyes that look like they’re on fire. I drop down on my back next to Sasha, yanking my own panties off on the way down. I lean over and kiss her aggressively, while my hands part my own labia and break the building tension. I let out a groan, squeeze my eyes closed tight, and say, “Oh, the hell with it. You,” I demand, looking over at Michael. “I’m gonna need you to fuck me now.”

Michael takes about half a second to realize what I’ve said, and snaps to attention. He rips his pants off and scrambles over to me like a starving animal. He knows better than to waste time kissing or touching me; he gets on his knees between my legs, lifts me by my hips and positions his cock. My eyes are closed tight and my mouth wide open, gasping for air as I anticipate the relief I need so badly. When he doesn’t give it to me immediately, I open my eyes and look up at him.

The devilish grin is back. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?” he repeats back to me.

“Michael, don’t,” I say to him.

“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just making sure I know my place.” His hands are still clutching my hips, and I can feel the head of his cock just barely making contact with me.

I let out a loud groan. “I need you,” I gasp, desperation building in my voice.

“Yeah, you do,” he smirks back at me. And then he leans forward, lowering his voice. “How badly do you need me?”

I look up at him, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “You’re my everything. My lord and savior.”

He nods down at me. “Don’t you fucking forget it,” he says, and slams himself inside of me.


	10. The Offer

In the months that we’ve known each other, Michael and I have had slow sex, fast sex, quiet sex, loud sex, tender sex… this round is just “pound the ever-loving fuck out of me” sex. He grips my hips tightly and holds me in place, thrusting into me aggressively, at full force the whole time. I see his eyes disappear into the back of his head, seeming as though he’s traveled to a zen-kinda-place in his mind, to enable him to last as long as I need him to. Which isn’t that long. My mind and body are both in such a hot and intense place, and he’s giving me exactly what I need. Within a few minutes, I am releasing a full-throated scream, finally unleashing the orgasm that had been building in me for pretty much the whole day. Seconds later, he lets himself go, and I get to watch him throw his head back and release one long, load groan. He loosens his grip on my hips, my ass falls to the bed, and he falls down on top of me, his breath heavy.

I turn and look at Sasha, aware that I’d completely ignored her for the past few minutes. She doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by that, though – her expression is stunned, but satisfied. I reach out and touch her face, she kisses my hand and shifts her body a little bit, turning onto her side and facing me. “You OK?” I ask her.

She nods. “I am golden,” she says.

Michael, still lying on top of me, nuzzles his face into my neck for a moment, then rolls off of me to my other side. They both look at me, my eyes dart back and forth between the two of them, and then I start laughing.

Michael leans in and kisses me, rolls back over to where he had abandoned his pants, and slides them back on. Sasha and I both watch him get up, walk across the room to the coffee table, and grab our three glasses, top them off at the bar, and cross back over to the bed. Sasha and I both sit up and scoot ourselves back against the headboard, accepting the drinks when he returns. I also give one of the sheets a good yank, disentangling it from the mess down by our feet, and managing to pull it free enough to cover mine and Sasha’s naked bodies.

I down half the seltzer in one gulp, realizing how thirsty I am. Michael takes a big swig from his glass then leaves it on the nightstand, crawling back over and sitting down cross-legged, facing Sasha and I. We sit there quietly for a moment, looking at each other expectantly. Finally, Michael breaks the silence.

“Sasha,” he begins, “You may have picked up on the fact that my Evelyn here is not exactly a traditional woman.”

Sasha laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Michael looks at me. “You know, on the night I met her, I watched her fuck another woman.”

Her eyes grow wide. “Really?”

I cut in. “That’s a story for another day,” I say. 

Michael shrugs. “Regardless, it made… shall we say… quite an impression on me.” Sasha and I both giggle at that. He continues, “Between the work you’ve done for the Cooperative, the conversations you’ve had with me, and the time you spent with Eve today, I expect you have a pretty good idea what’s going on at this Compound.” She nods.

“And the Sanctuary?” She nods.

“And the purpose of this trip that we’re going on?” She nods again.

He considers this. “I imagine you already know, then, that my father selected Eve to be a companion for me. And as we’re about to enclose ourselves underground for several years, I’ve been thinking about what it’s going to take to keep my non-traditional girl happy down there. So I’ve decided to offer her a few of the remaining Sanctuary slots to individuals that will serve as companions for her.”

Hearing this, she sits up a little straighter. “Oh?”

He nods, and says the words she’s been waiting to hear. “And I’m offering a slot to you.”

I turn to Sasha, and chime in. “We can’t bring you on as a Cooperative member, I’m afraid. You’d have to be support staff. Working on the hospitality team, helping out with making and repairing clothes and stuff. It’s well beneath your skills, but… it’s what we have to offer.”

Her eyes bug out. “Are you kidding me? I’d clean toilets if you needed me to.” 

I smile at her. “Well, hopefully it won’t come to that… so you want to come, then?”

“Yes, absolutely. My lord, I’m so grateful… thank you. Thank you for this,” she says to Michael. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Thank you for making my Eve so happy,” he says, giving her a little smile.

I continue, “So… we’re gonna go on this trip, which will give you some time to return to New York, pack your stuff, say any goodbyes. It happens that New York is the last stop on our tour, so you can just come back with us. That’ll be in about three weeks. And then we’ll have one last Walpurgis night, before heading to the Sanctuary.”

She nods, taking this all in.

Michael reaches back and grabs his glass, taking another drink. “In time, I think some of the details of our particular arrangement,” – he says, gesturing around to the three of us – “will become clearer. But I want to outline a few ground rules. First, you’re here in service to Eve. You’ll have a supervisor once you return, but her needs are your primary responsibility. And second, it’s important that you remember that she is here in service to me. Not to sound imperious, but, my needs are_ her_ primary responsibility.

“And the third. This right here is our bed,” he says, flattening his hand against the mattress. “You are welcome in it, except for when I am sleeping. I’m sorry of it seems harsh, but when it’s time to sleep, I’m gonna kick you out.”

She continues nodding. “Whatever you need, sir.”

He shakes his head. “Michael. Seriously. I can’t have you calling me, ‘sir,’ after… all that.” He says, indicating the evening’s activities.

“Michael, then. Thank you,” she says.

I reach out and take her hand. “Do you have any questions?”

She smiles back at me. “I’m sure I will. Right now, I am just so… grateful. Relieved. And excited.” I lean against the headboard and guide her shoulders back so that she is leaning against me. I wrap both arms around her and she entangles her fingers in mine.

Michael downs the last of his wine. “I think my male gaze and I are going to head back outside for a moment; I need to check in on a few details for our trip. Sasha, do you have everything you need for tonight?”

She nods, “I do. Thank you,” she says.

Michael looks me in the eye and I nod to him, making sure he knows that I’ve gotten the message he was sending her. _You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here._

Before he walks away from the bed, he leans down and kisses the top of my head, then he takes Sasha’s hand and kisses her knuckles. “Until next time,” he says.

***

I give Sasha a minute or two to snuggle against me and enjoy the big warm bed, but then I have to start giving her the bums rush outta here. We take turns freshening ourselves up in the bathroom, get dressed, and I walk her back to the conference room to grab her suitcase. We take the elevator down to the fourth floor where her room is, and she uses her keycard to get in. As I stand in her doorway, I’m not quite sure how to say good-bye to her. “Am I going to see you again? Before we meet up in New York?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. The boys wanna leave crazy-early in the morning, and I don’t want to disturb you and Michael. We’ll just sneak outta here.”

I step over to the desk and snag the notepad by the phone. I jot down my email address. “I have an iPad here, and I can connect it to the Wi-Fi in this room, and I’ll have it with me when we travel. Message me as often as you want. Once you get your phone back, that is,” I say, smiling.

She nods, taking the paper and wrapping her arms around me. “I’m going to wake up tomorrow and this is all going to seem like a dream. For the next three weeks… until I see you two again… I won’t hardly believe any of this happened. Is happening.”

I hug her back. “I can imagine. What a whirlwind. And I remember all too well what preparing to come to the Compound felt like… it’s some surreal shit. Seriously, message me as often as you need to.”

We hold each other a little longer, and I pull back and give her a long, deep kiss. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re my savior. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

I give her one last kiss. “Well, we’ll have fun coming up with ways for you to try.” We finally let go of each other and I step into the hall, closing the door behind me.

***

When I arrive back in our bedroom, Michael is in our bed with his laptop. “Got sick of the balcony?” I ask him.

“It’s fucking cold out there,” he says, and I laugh at that. I climb into the bed and lie down facing him. He finishes typing something, lays his laptop on the nightstand, and lies down facing me.

“How was your day?” I ask him.

He laughs. “Oh, I can’t complain.”

“I think it’s going to take Sasha a few days to process what happened here.”

He snorts. “Yeah, I think I will, too.”

I need to seize this moment to get something off my chest. “Michael, I’m truly excited about this development. I think it’ll be a lot of fun for all three of us and I’m glad that you’re opening your mind to such possibilities.”

He strokes my face. “So am I.”

“But I just need to say… you keep talking about how you want me to be happy. _You_ make me happy. I could never touch another person for the rest of my life and I’d still be completely fulfilled. Wanting for nothing. This exploration seems like it’s exciting for you, so I am here for it. But I just need you to know that I don’t need it. All I need is you.”

He pulls me in close to him, tucking my head up under his chin. “Thank you, my love. Don’t worry. I’m not questioning your devotion to me. Just trying to keep things interesting.”

A smile spreads across my face as I snuggle into him for the night. _Never a dull moment._


	11. The Preparations

I have two more “normal” days before we head off on our trip. On the first of those days, I spend the morning at work, keeping my mind busy by reminiscing about my day (and my evening) with Sasha, pondering what our life will be like when she returns. I imagine walking into her congregation in New York, seeing her from across the room, and running into her arms again. I imagine bringing her back to the Compound and getting her set up in a room downstairs. I try to envision what our last big celebration will look like before we head to the Sanctuary. But beyond that… I don’t even know how to imagine life. The world will end, my baby will come, we’ll all be hidden underground – me, Michael, our child… and my girlfriend. I still have so many questions.

When I think about the end of the world, I get immediately overwhelmed and my mind just kinda goes blank. There is so much I don’t know about what will happen, but whenever I ask questions, the answer is, “That’s the Cooperative’s concern.” And I don’t press further, because I am afraid that I might get answers I am not ready for.

When my shift ends, I snag a quick lunch to-go, and head upstairs to check my iPad. As soon as I open it up, the screen is flooded with messages that Sasha had been sending all morning:

“I finally have my phone back! Beware, I’m going to start messaging you relentlessly.”

“I cannot stop thinking about last night.”

“Tad is driving for the first shift, which means *I* am stuck listening to his crappy music.”

“We have stopped to eat at a Denny’s in some shithole town in Pennsylvania. Paul is unhappy with their lack of vegan options.”

“Just an hour from home, now. I’m thinking about what to do with all my stuff. Thinking about what to do with my last three weeks. Thinking I might fake a major illness so I can blow off all my clients.”

“What do you think… is mono believable? Do people still get mono?”

“Back in my place. I kinda want to just burn it all down.” That last message is accompanied by a selfie she has taken in her living room, pouting in front of a bookshelf that is overflowing with crap. I’m charmed by her outpouring of excitement, and I want to send her something to show her that the feeling is mutual. I rip off my uniform top, plop down in the bed in the same position she last saw me in, take a selfie in my bra, and send it to her.

“Just got off work. I can still smell your perfume on these sheets.” I put my shirt back on and wait for her to respond. She does, and we spend a good 20 minutes chatting about her trip home, the weirdness of being back in her old life, and we say some flirty things about how we can’t wait to see each other again. Eventually, I tell her that I have to go eat my lunch and start my Satan-cramming. “There are so many books I gotta read,” I tell her.

“Good luck!” she replies, and I snap the iPad closed. I sit myself down on the couch with my lunch and the Bible, which I crack open to the Book of Revelation. For years, I had been hearing about the prophecy, the Antichrist, and the Apocalypse, and I have a _general _idea what is supposed to go down… but I want to understand it better. I read all of about 15 words of the first verse, then open the iPad back up and start digging online for some kind of Cliffs Notes version, because I can already tell that none of it is going to make sense to me.

I keep reading, digging, interpreting. I move on to biographical information about Anton LaVey, and while I am reading about how he faked his death, I stumble upon the Wikipedia page for Michael Langdon. _Why have I never read this before? _An hour goes by, then two, and by the end of it I have fallen deeply down a rabbit hole of moronic conspiracy theories about who Michael is and what he’s here to do. It’s entertaining stuff, but it’s not really getting me any closer to understanding the prophecy.

So I shut my iPad, open the Bible back up, and try to force myself to concentrate. And I promptly fall asleep. Those two hours or so of puttering around, reading vaguely Satanic content online, are all the Satan-cramming I can pull off before we start on our trip.

***

On my last day of work, I arrive extra-early, wanting to go out with a bang by making some extra-impressive desserts. For breakfast, I make four kinds of croissants (my favorite), and donuts (Michael’s favorite), and the dessert spread for tonight’s dinner is pretty ridiculous – tiramisu, raspberry tarts, chocolate lava cake, and pumpkin bread pudding. It’s way more than we’ll need, but I just felt like saying a proper farewell to my beautifully-appointed kitchen.

And a proper farewell to my coworkers, who I’ll continue to see around the Compound and eventually the Sanctuary, but not in the kitchen. When my shift is over, I take off my apron and walk over to Connie and Edward, who are standing at a prep table, setting out lunch plates.

I reach out my arms and the three of us embrace in a huge hug. “Have fun, girl!” Edward says. “Don’t worry about us. Just bring us back some hot new kitchen staff, please.”

Connie and I exchange a look, and I nod at her. “You know I will,” I say.

We finish saying our goodbyes and I head up to my bedroom to change out of my uniform for the last time. I am surprised to find Michael sitting on the couch, his phone to his ear and a serious look on his face. I usually don’t see him until dinnertime.

I give him a little wave and breeze past him into the closet, not wanting to interrupt. I change my clothes as quietly as possible, hoping to hear a snippet of his conversation. All I hear him say is a curt, “Fine, then. You’ll hear from my associates next week.” And then he tosses the phone on the coffee table and falls back onto the couch, exhaling.

I step out of the closet and come up behind him; his eyes are closed and his hair is spread across the cushions. I gaze down at him, admiring him for just a moment before I place my fingers right along the part in his hair, then move them toward his temples, scratching his scalp lightly as I go. His eyes remain closed, but a smile spreads across his face. “Mmmm, that helps,” he says. All I know about scalp massage is what my hair stylist would do sometimes back in Chicago, but I try my best to mimic the movements she used to make, and I watch his face closely to see how he responds. _I think he likes it._

I keep it up for a few minutes until his eyes pop open. He grabs my hands and pulls them down to his sides, pulling my face down to meet his as well. I give him an upside-down kiss, and he groans up at me. “I am afraid I have to take you into a conference room now,” he says.

I look around. “Why, can’t we just do it here?” I ask.

He busts out laughing. “I wish.” He looks up at me. “I need you for a meeting,” he explains.

My cheeks redden. “Oh,” I say. He stands up and walks around the couch so he’s standing before me. He wraps his arms around me, presses me against him tightly, leans down and gives me a kiss that starts soft and quickly builds in intensity, making my knees go weak. He rips his face away from mine, gasping for hair, and placing his hands on my shoulders.

“We’ll try to get this over quickly. So I can bring you back in here,” he says.

A few minutes later, we enter one of the smaller conference rooms down the hall. Ms. Mead is in there, along with two Cooperative members. I recognize them from dinners and parties and such, but I don’t know their names. There is a woman with an angular haircut who I’ve always thought of as an overbearing PR lady, and a crazy-skinny goth dude who I’ve seen do a lot of cocaine. 

Michael gestures to an empty seat, and the two of us sit down. He starts with introductions. “Marianne and Thomas here have been helping us make the arrangements for our journey.” 

I nod to the two of them in succession, “Thank you, nice to meet you,” I say, immediately forgetting their names. 

The woman hands each of us some stapled pages; they are covered with an extremely detailed itinerary. Six cities, two nights in each city, with a day off between Chicago and New Orleans. For a total of 14 days of traveling. Hitting the road will be Ms. Mead, Michael, and I, plus two security guards.

We walk through the plan, city by city. In San Francisco, we’ll meet up with Anton and his other cardinal Samantha; they’ll travel with us for the rest of the trip.

In Los Angeles, we’ll go to Michael’s old congregation and meet up with Hannah, the priestess, and Madeline, a Cooperative member, who had been the ones to help Michael find the Cooperative. 

In Chicago, we’ll be meeting up with my former high priest, Jonathan, but they say nothing more than that. So I turn to Ms. Mead and ask her, “What did you decide about my friend Julia? Are you going to honor the Cooperative’s promise to let her join?”

Ms. Mead shrugs. “We’ll see what The Father says.”

I turn to Michael, waiting for more explanation. He nods. “The Cooperative can extend her an offer, but if my father doesn’t accept her soul… she can’t join. What does she do for a living?”

“A baker, like me.” 

He considers that. “Well, that’s convenient. If he doesn’t accept her, perhaps she can take your job in the kitchens.” 

I nod. That’s seems fair enough. 

Michael continues the run-down. “And then between the third and fourth cities, we’re taking a day off,” he says, looking at me.

“Oh?” I ask.

Michael gives me a wicked little wink. “A vacation from our vacation,” he says. My heart starts pounding. 

“To do what?” I ask.

“It’s a surprise,” he responds. _This could either be something very good, or very bad. _

I make myself smile back at him, “I love surprises,” I say.

The next city on our list is New Orleans. They go through their list of details and are ready to move on to the next city. _If I’m going to ask about Connie’s husband, now is the time._ I interrupt them. “I’ve been meaning to ask… there is a chef in Atlanta who the kitchen staff has been talking about. He was profiled in Food & Wine as the “Satanic Sous Chef.” If we wanted to meet him… could we arrange that? Could their congregation ask him to come over from Atlanta?”

The four of them look at each other and ultimately all eyes land on Michael. “I don’t see why not,” he says. My heart skips a beat. I give them his info, deciding that, for now, I can leave off the fact that he’s Connie’s husband. I might bring that up to just Michael a bit later, but in this moment, I feel like they’d frown at the nepotism I’m attempting more than they’d be excited by the procreation potential.

Our fifth city will be Washington, DC, where apparently a ton of Cooperative members live and work. The congregation there is a weirdly secret one, which meets underground and doesn’t have a public presence. Which makes the prospect of organizing our trip a little trickier, but it should also make things intriguing once we’re there. 

And our last stop is New York, where we’ll visit Sasha’s congregation and bring her back with us. 

We review the list of people we need to find — six replacements for Co-op members and nine support staff, including Sasha. We talk about the logistics of the plane we’ll be traveling in, which is a private jet with a dedicated pilot. I notice Michael’s leg starting to jiggle under the table and I can tell he’s getting restless. 

The Co-op lady tells us to turn to the last page of the handouts she’s given us, and starts to review the security protocols. Michael takes one look at the sheet, drops it on the table, and speaks up. “No, I think we’re done here,” he says, getting to his feet. The other three at the table whip their heads around, looking at each other, not sure how to react. “I’ll read it on the plane,” he offers. He holds his hand out to me, I stand and join him and we leave the room, while the others make astonished faces but do nothing to stop us.


	12. The Call

We enter our bedroom, and Michael races about in a bit of a frenzy. He throws his jacket on the bed, crosses to the windows and starts closing the curtains. He crosses back over to closet, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, and letting it fall to the floor. When he re-emerges from his closet, he’s holding a large wooden box, which he carries back over to the empty corner of the room, then falls to his knees. 

The walls of the corner are lined with white novena candles, and he pulls some tall matches from the wooden box, and starts lighting them, one by one. He looks over his shoulder at me, jerking his head to indicate I should come closer, and I cross the room to stand behind him. As he moves from one candle to the next, he speaks up. “There are dangers outside these walls,” he starts. “Security guards can only do so much to protect us on our journey. There are followers of Christ who would kill us on sight. There are jealous Satanists who’d try to usurp your position. You know it, you’ve seen it before.”

I nod, remembering Sharon, the zealot I used to work with, whom Michael had unceremoniously turned to dust. He continues, his voice dripping with disgust, “And we must be ever vigilant, lest the witches return.” He finishes lighting the candles, stands and faces me, with intensity in his eyes and an unwavering expression on his face. “We need to call upon my father, to protect us.” 

I take a deep breath. I’d been in the presence of Michael and his father only once before, when our child was conceived. My memory of that experience is pretty blurry, but there is one part I can recall with crystal clarity – the terror I felt when I saw the blackness in Michael’s eyes. But I don’t dare voice any opposition; it’s clear that _this is happening. _

He doesn’t give me much of a chance to speak up, anyway. “You know the drill,” he says. “Undraped and unashamed, as we once began life.” Ah yes. That’s Satanist-speak for _time to get naked. _I drop to my knees to unlace his boots, while he unbuckles his pants. When I’ve got him bare-footed, I stand back up, and he teeters a bit as he’s trying to scoot his pants off. He lets out the tiniest little laugh as he grabs my shoulder for stability, and I’m grateful for even the smallest break in his serious façade. He helps slide my dress over my head; it takes about 10 more seconds to take off my bra and panties and kick off my ballet flats.

We face each other, totally naked now, and I look up at him, trembling a little. I see his face soften a bit more, and feel relief wash over me. He raises an eyebrow. “You nervous?”

I shrug a little. “Maybe? I just… I just really want your dad to like me.” I make a joke to cover my fear, and he throws his head back, laughing.

“You do not need to worry about that; my dad loves you. Sometimes, when I call him, he doesn’t come. But I’m pretty sure he’ll show up for you.” Michael places his hands on my shoulders, and drops his head down and touches his forehead against mine. “If anything were to happen to you,” he moves one hand to my belly, “or our child… my life would be over. I cannot bear the thought. We must take every precaution.”

I nod, and he pulls me close and rests his chin on top of my head. My body starts sending signals to me, something along the lines of _Hey, you’ve got a naked Michael pressed against you right now._ But I have to silence those signals. At least, for the time being.

Michael walks back over to the corner, reaches into his box of magic stuff, and grabs a small pot with a cork lid. He opens it, reaches inside, and pulls out a handful of what looks like charcoal dust. He crouches down in the center of the open area and slowly and methodically dispenses the dust from his hand as he moves in a circle. At some point, he runs out and I hold the jar out to him so he can grab some more. He smiles up at me. “The pure silt of the ages,” he says, as he continues. When he’s made a full pentagram on the floor, he stands back up and walks over to the box. He pulls out a big-ass knife with a black handle and a gnarly-looking gut hook. He sets it on the floor in the center of the pentagram, then he moves to the other side of it, facing me.

He clears his throat, then holds out his hands toward me, his eyes alive and excited. “In the majestic light of undefiled wisdom, awake and enter.” I step toward him, and take his hands. “We confront you, our father, as we once began life. We breathe again that first breath.” He closes his eyes and takes slow, deep breaths. I do the same, trying desperately to calm myself down, to feel present. I feel Michael’s hands start to pull mine down, and I open my eyes. He is moving to he knees, so I do the same.

He reaches down and grabs one of the candles, holding it in one hand and extending his palm vertically above the flame. He nods down at his hand and wiggles his fingers a bit, signaling to me that I’m supposed to put my hand out as well. I press my palm against his, and I feel the heat of the flame against my wrist. “Through the flame, we walk with you in hell, we awaken our senses to the comfort of your protection.” We hold our hands like that for a moment, and just when I feel like I might be getting a little bit burned, Michael lets go and puts the candle back down. He looks at the ground, goes still for a minute, centering himself. When he lifts his head, there are tears streaming down his cheeks, and he proclaims at the ceiling, “May you rise from the void, Father. May your darkness guide us.”

I couldn’t tell you why, but tears start rolling down my face as well. I am captivated watching him, his eyes closed, his head lolling from one side to the other. He opens his eyes and looks down, and I realize that he’s picked up the knife. I gasp as he runs the blade along his forearm and lets out a long groany breath. He drops the knife, angles his arm down with his wrist facing upward, watching the blood run down his wrist to his fingertips. He looks up at me, his eyes lock with mine, and he places his blood-covered hand on my chest. “Do you surrender yourself, in eternal commitment to Satan?” he asks me.

“I do,” I reply, my heart pounding.

He places the same hand on my forehead. “Do you beseech the wisdom of Lucifer, our Lord of Light?”

“I do.”

He places both hands on my belly, closing his eyes again. “Father, lend us your power. Power in Satan to face our opponents. Power in your name to keep us safe from harm. We beg of you.”

That’s when I feel it descend upon me. The presence that I’d felt back in my congregation in Chicago, the presence that had guided me through my Black Mass, through the conception of my child. “He is with me,” I say to Michael, though I can no longer see him. I feel his warm wet hands on my body, but my eyes reveal another reality. 

I am not in my bedroom anymore, but on a rocky precipice of some sort, looking out over a dark landscape. I feel the same sensation as I’d felt before, Satan’s hands on my shoulders, his breath in my ear, his presence enveloping me in a soothing embrace. He speaks to me.

_My Evelyn, my daughter, who has served me so admirably. Our future depends on your safety. _

A response spills out of me. I’m not sure if I’m speaking out loud, but I manage to form words somehow. _You honor me, my king._

I feel him squeeze me tighter. _I can think of no better way to protect you, or to acknowledge your service, than to bestow my power upon you._

I respond to him again. _May I be worthy._

His arms feel like they’re lengthening, expanding, wrapping themselves around me again and again. I hear a low roar, coming from him, and coming from the air around us. The dark landscape begins to glow, and I see fire erupting down below. I see swirling orange and yellow flames, and vaguely-defined forms swirling within. Demons? Souls? I can’t really tell. The roar builds and builds until it shakes me to my core, and I think I might be screaming as well. The sound dies down and he speaks one last time. _Go with my love, my Evelyn. Protect yourself, and my son. _

I respond _Ave Satanas, _and I feel Satan slip away from me. I look out over the precipice, fear setting in, wondering why he has left me alone in this place. In the next moment, though, I feel a touch on my hand; I turn my head and see Michael stepping up from behind me, looking out into the flames as well. I am so grateful to see him that I throw my arms around him and cling for dear life.

He holds me just as tight, and I can hear his reassuring words, _I’m here, I’m here._ We stand there for some time, my face buried in his neck, waiting for him to take us back. When he doesn’t, I lift my head and look up at him. He looks back at me, his eyes clear, which jogs me into an understanding – we’re existing in two realms right now. Back in our bedroom, our bodies remain, standing and embracing as our souls are here, but with the blackness obscuring our eyes.

The last time this happened, when Michael took me to his father’s house, it had been scary and confusing and it was over so quickly. This time, I seem to have a deeper understanding of what’s going on, a heightened sense of control over it all. I place my hand on Michael’s chest, feeling the warmth of his skin in one realm, and the vibration of his soul in another. I close my eyes and relish this sensation for a bit. I feel so expansive. I can sense the connection between all the souls in this place, to all the bodies on earth. And suddenly I understand how Michael does it all – bring back the souls of the dead, banish people from earth with his touch, manipulate consciousness. Through it all, however, a million miles above us but ever-present, is a threatening force. A sense of judgment descending from a realm that we can’t access. I look up, and I cannot see anything but more darkness, but I can feel it. _God’s house._

I look back into Michael’s eyes, and a smile is spreading across his face. _You see it all now, don’t you._

_Yes,_ I respond. _I see it ALL._

He grabs my face and kisses me deeply, with a new kind of passion, and a connection that transcends words. There is a unique understanding between the two of us now, of what it means to hold power, the temptation to use it, and the constant sense of rejection that makes our connection feel redemptive. _We are the new world, _his words travel through me as his kissing intensifies. His body is still pressed against me and he shifts his stance a bit so that his erection is lewdly digging into the bottom of my rounded belly.

I want him inside me, immediately. I don’t want to take the time to lie down, or turn around and bend over… I need him now. But I’m a few inches too short. I pull down on his shoulders, encouraging him to bend his knees a little, and instead, he lifts me from my waist. Like I am nothing. He slides himself inside me and I wrap my legs around his waist. I throw my head back and let out a wail; there is a sense of _completion_ that is hitting me now, like nothing I’ve felt before. In this place that transcends human comprehension, with this powerful partner who can see inside my soul, feeling his father’s blessing and protection, and in this sexual position that I don’t think I could pull off before… I feel glorious.

My hands grip his shoulders and I lean back; at this angle, every thrust of his hips rocks my whole body, and the pleasure that rockets through me seems to fill the air. I open my eyes and look at Michael, who is groaning in ecstasy, his head thrown back. As though he can feel me looking at him, he lowers his face and looks back at me, and our astonished eyes confirm for each other that we’re on a whole new playing field, here. He tightens his grip on my hips, our mutual pleasure building and building in intensity, until I literally feel like we are shaking the heavens. And when we explode into each other, the feeling is like we’re floating in a place beyond time, beyond any realm. When my breath returns, I lean back into Michael, kissing him and feeling the lingering explosive energy pass back and forth between us.

And then we crash to the ground—literally. Just like that, our bodies and souls are reunited, we’re back in the bedroom, and gravity betrays us. For a few stunned seconds, Michael and I lie in a tangled heap of limbs, covered in blood and dust, panting, disoriented… and then we both burst out laughing. I disentangle my legs, lie down next to him, and cradle his face in my hands. He is looking at me, his eyes clear, and his face serene. 

“Are you OK?” he asks.

I nod. “Are you?”

He nods back, and we just sit there, gazing at each other for a moment. I run my hand down his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, here on earth. And then I notice that his arm is still caked in blood. “Your arm!” I exclaim. “How bad is it?”

He shrugs. “I’ll be fine,” he says, holding it up to look a little more closely. There is a long gash, from his wrist to his elbow, still bleeding in a few spots. I instinctively place my hand on his wrist, close my eyes, and feel the presence flow through me again. I run my hand up his arm, channeling the energy into his flesh. And when I open my eyes, the gash is gone. I look at his face, incredulous.

“Did you do that?” I ask him.

He shakes his head, smiling at me. “You did that,” he says. 

My head is swimming. What had Satan said? “_Bestow my power upon you_,” I say aloud.

“Is that what my father said?” Michael asks. I nod at him, and his smile grows wider. “Welcome,” he says. You’ve been reborn in his image.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. 

“Magic,” he whispers dramatically, waving his hand in a showy, joking way. 

My jaw drops and my eyes go wide. “No,” I say.

He nods. “Try it out.” He sits up, grabs one of the candles and blows it out, then sets it down front of me. “Light it,” he says.

I sit up and take a moment to silence my brain and focus. The sensation is hard to describe; it’s like there is a wavelength in the air that I can feel floating around. It takes some time, but I manage to zero in on it, then grab it. I focus on the candle, try to direct the energy toward it and… whoosh, it lights up. I let out a little yelp, covering my mouth with my hand.

Michael claps his hands together, “Oh, the fun we can have now,” he says. His face is beaming, his eyes filled with delight. He looks to the sky and proclaims, “Hail Satan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you’re curious, I curbed some of the ritual language I used here from LaVey’s Adult Rite of Satanic Baptism, from The Satanic Ritual.


	13. The Wonder

When Michael and I finally get up off the floor, we both feel, well, like we’ve been to hell and back. Bruised and sore and filthy, we make a beeline for our shower and set about the business of washing each other off. We’re both way too exhausted to get frisky in there, but we do spend long stretches just leaning against each other, being soothed by the warm water. When we emerge from the shower, it’s about dinnertime, and we’re both starving. Michael makes a quick call to tell hospitality to leave our dinner outside of the door; neither of us are in any shape to leave this room.

I put on my giant fluffy robe, Michael puts on his pajama pants, and we settle in for a night of lounging. After the last time Michael and I made this journey, he slept for something like 16 hours straight, and I can see why – I feel depleted, like I’ve been drained of all the energy in my body and mind. Fortunately, my new traveling clothes are already packed up, so I don’t have too much to do to prepare, but it’s overwhelming to think that we’re getting on a plane tomorrow afternoon.

I’m sitting on the bed, combing through my wet hair, thinking about the things I’ll need to pack in the morning. “Oh!” A thought pops into my head. “I nearly forgot. I’m going to see the OB tomorrow, before we head to the airport. I’m sure it’s a busy morning for you… But I wanted to make sure you knew. In case you want to come.”

Michael is still standing by the bathroom, and he walks up to the bed and climbs in. “Is this the one with the ultrasound?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m 22 weeks along, so it’s about that time.”

He crawls over to me on his hands and knees, dropping down and resting his head sideways on my belly, looking up at me. “Do you feel the baby squirming around in there, yet?”

I stroke his wet hair. “Not yet. They say it should start any day now. Usually by 25 weeks.”

He turns his face downward, placing his hands against my skin. “Hello? Can you hear me?” he starts. “There’s some crazy-ass shit going on out here; you doing OK in there?” he asks.

I laugh at that, and he continues. “We’ll see you in the morning, little one.” Just then, there is a knock at the door. Michael hops up, throws on his own robe and heads to the door to find that hospitality has diligently left our dinner tray outside the door for us. He brings it over and drops it right on the bed, climbing back in next to me.

“You want to eat in bed?” I ask him.

He nods. “I don’t know about you, but I’m completely spent. As soon as I finish eating, I am apt to pass out where I stand.”

I giggle, and we scoot back against the headboard, grabbing our plates. I’m thankful that Edward had made his fish tacos tonight and not something sloppier. For a few minutes, we are silent, shoveling food into our mouths like we hadn’t eaten in days. When he finally pauses for some air, Michael asks me, “So how do you feel?”

I shrug. “I don’t think I feel any different. I mean, other than just tired. Should I?”

He shrugs back at me. “It’s hard to say. My birthing ritual was… very different. I can’t really compare.” I look at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He sets his plate down. “Anton and his cardinals conducted a Black Mass for me, and that’s when I saw my father for the first time. But it wasn’t just when he blessed me with his power… it was also when he confirmed that I was his son. It was very powerful, and I was _totally_ a different person after that. But you’ve taken your own path, so… I don’t really know how different you _should_ feel.”

I nod, grabbing a tortilla chip and setting it on the mattress. I stare at it intently, exhaling, and trying to find my center within the energy in the room. I hold out my hand, and just as though it’s on a tiny zip line, the chip flies right into my hand. I gasp.

Michael shakes his head, smiling. “Shit, you’ve mastered descensum, pyrokinesis, and telekinesis on your first day.”

“De-scen-what?”

Now he’s just laughing at me. “There are seven different powers, the ‘seven wonders,’ that witches and warlocks try to master. But I’m pretty sure you’re already past all that. Descensum is the ability to move between metaphysical realms, and its supposed to be the most difficult, but... you seem to have knocked that one out first.”

“What are the other ones?” I ask.

He yawns, and makes a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s for another day. Right now, I’m ready to rest.”

A few minutes later, the dinner dishes are stashed, the lights are out, Michael’s robe is off, and he’s climbing into bed. He grabs me by the waist and yanks me over next to him, wrapping his arms around me before softly muttering, “Goodnight, my love.” And then he’s out. I lie there for a moment and let him sink more deeply into sleep before I wriggle out of his arms so I can look down at him.

It never stops amazing me how quickly he can fall asleep, and how perfectly still he looks while sleeping. Even thought my body is exhausted, my mind is racing after the day we’d had, and thinking about what awaits us tomorrow. I look down at the moonlight hitting Michael, making his hair seem to glow, and the shadows that his cheekbones cut across his face. My mind jumps back to my first few weeks at the Compound, when I was just a girl making pastries for the Cooperative and Michael was just the leader who I had a crush on.

Back then, I’d been so afraid that I’d never know him, that I’d remain an insignificant nobody to him, forever. And now, in such a place of prominence in his life, I still live in fear. I’m his partner, I’m carrying his child, and now his father had given me this power, and instructed me to _protect his son_ – another responsibility, another way in which I could fail him. Looking down at him now, my heart swells with love for him stronger than it ever had, and all I can do is hope that I am up to the tasks before me.

***

The next morning, I wake with the alarm that I’d set for 8:00am. It had felt a little silly to set it, since until recently I had been a person who got up at 4:00am, but I had a feeling we’d need it. I’m supposed to be down at the health unity at 9:00, and who knows how much longer I could’ve slept.

Much like Michael falls asleep instantly, he wakes up instantly. His eyes snap open with the sound of the alarm, perfectly alert, without the morning grogginess that’s still tugging at me. “Ready for our big day?” he asks, the excitement audible in his voice. I groan at him in response, but drag myself out of bed.

An hour later, we’re in the elevator down to the health unit, which is basically just a block of hotel rooms on the sixth floor that had been outfitted with medical equipment and support staff from the health team. I’d been to see the OB every few weeks for the past several months, but I know that Michael had never been down there, and I am pretty sure that most of these staff had never spoken to him before.

That fact gets confirmed when we walk in the health unit door and are met by a bunch of dropped jaws. The nurse at the front desk practically screams, “Mr. Langdon!” and everyone else standing around snaps to attention. I can’t help but giggle. We’re taken to one of the two exam rooms and the OB joins us immediately.

She extends her hand to Michael. “Mr. Langdon, I’m Dr. MacKaye. I’m the OB who has been attending to Eve’s pregnancy, and I’m also setting up the health unit in the Sanctuary to ensure a safe delivery,” she explains. Michael nods and the two exchange pleasantries, then she sets about the business of checking my weight and measuring my growth – both things the nurse usually does, but I guess Michael’s presence means we get special attention.

Everything is looking fine, and she starts to explain the next step. “Eve hasn’t been able to do an ultrasound before today, because the machine only arrived last week. We’ve been testing it and it’s working great; in a few weeks we’ll move it to the Sanctuary, with all the other equipment. I’m going to go get ready for your exam, but before I take you back there, I need to ask a question – do you want to know the sex?”

I turn to look at Michael, expecting us to discuss it, but his answer for the doctor is pretty clear. “Pffft,” he scoffs. “No need for that nonsense.”

Dr. MacKaye says, “OK. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take you back.”

I’m still looking at Michael as she walks out of the room. “Nonsense?” I ask him.

He looks back at me, “What, do you want to know?”

I shrug. “Not necessarily… but… I thought you might?”

His face is puzzled. “Why?”

Feeling stupid all of the sudden, my face starts to flush. “Well, there have been a bunch of times where you’ve referred to our child as ‘your son,’ and I’ve wondered if maybe… that matters to you.”

“Ah, the limitations of language,” he says, taking a seat in one of the chairs by the wall. He slowly folds his hands in his lap, and looks up at me. His face is ponderous, like he’s trying to decide where to begin. “When you’ve been in my father’s presence, have you _seen_ him? Laid your eyes on his physical form?”

I shake my head. “No, he’s always just… a presence. Does he _have_ a physical form?”

That makes Michael smile. “It’s whatever he wants it to be. I call Satan my father, because I had a human mother. And the writings about him have always referred to him as male, but they were written by humans, who only know gender as a binary. But Satan has no gender.”

He’s kind of blowing my mind right now, but I really want him to continue. So I nod, acting like this is making perfect sense to me. “The binary required for procreation is baked-in to humanity; it’s one of the ‘wonders of God’s creation,’” he continues, rolling his eyes. “And I’m mostly human, physiologically, so I’m a man.”

“Yeah, you are,” I say lasciviously, regretting the words as they are coming out of my mouth.

Fortunately he laughs, and continues, “But the binary of gender is one of the constructs I aim to destroy in the new world. Who demonized Eve in the Garden of Eden? Who created original sin?”

“Well, it’s from the bible, so it’s the word of God,” I say, thinking aloud. “As told by man.”

“Right,” he says. “Men – as in males – enforce the gender binary to subvert the natural power of woman. It’s meaningless and I want it gone. All of which is a long way of saying… I could not care less what our child’s sex is. And if I’ve referred to them as ‘my son,’ that’s just laziness. And the inadequacy of language.”

I nod some more. “So are you going to do away with gendered pronouns in the new world?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? It definitely feels like we could come up with something better.” I’m at a loss for words, and I just stare at him for a moment. He stares back at me, his face still confused. “What’s wrong?” he asks me.

I shake my head, “Nothing.” I reply. “I’m just crushing on you really hard right now. I don’t think you’ve ever said anything more sexy to me than, ‘I aim to destroy the gender binary.”

He laughs again. “Good, I’m glad we agree.”

The doctor returns, takes us to the ultrasound suite, and the exam goes just fine. We’re able to lay eyes on the little one, see its head and limbs, and hear its heartbeat. I hadn’t realized how much anxiety I’d been carrying around until that image appeared on the screen and a wave of relief came over me. I managed to avoid asking, _What impact does visiting hell have on fetal development?_ But I was thrilled to learn that the answer was, apparently, _None._

When the appointment is over and Michael and I are heading back up to our room to finish packing, I feel lighter than I’d felt in a while. My anxiety over my baby’s well-being had been soothed, as well as my fears about how Michael would react to having a girl. Last night, I had quaked in fear over what lie ahead of us, but in the light of the morning, I am excited, and ready to hit the road.


	14. The Flight

Three hours later, I am in a van with Michael, Ms. Mead, and two guards, and we’re arriving at the local airport. As one of the guards opens the back door, I am reminded of the last time I saw this airport, when I was being escorted away from it in handcuffs. It’s small, only used by private planes, and we move through the “terminal” building and onto our jet quickly. Once boarded, I realize that it’s even the same little jet we’d flown in before, with only four small couches for seating. I sit next to the window on the very same couch Michael and I had been in on that trip. _That time when you choked me. _I look up at him as he sits down, and I swear he gives me a little wink. 

“Is this yours?” I ask, gesturing around the cabin.

He ponders that. “It belonged to a Cooperative member, but… what was theirs is now mine, so, essentially, yes.”

“Nice,” I say. “Now I’ll never be able to go back to flying commercial.”

“Well, that won’t really be an issue, now, will it?” He asks. _It’s funny when I find myself forgetting that the world is about to end. _

Ms. Mead sits down across the aisle from us, and immediately pulls out her laptop and begins pecking away. Then our guards file in and each take one of the couches behind us. I look over at Michael and wonder how much fun we could we have on this airplane if we were alone.

The flight to San Francisco is about five hours, lots of time to catch up on my Satanic reading. Once the plane is in the air, I whip out my copy of _The Satanic Bible_ and open it to the page I’ve marked. Michael looks over at me and scowls.

“Why are you reading that?” he asks.

“I’m about to meet Anton LaVey. I feel like I should read his books first.”

“Nah. You already know everything you need to know about Satanism,” he says. 

“But won’t they expect me to know this stuff?”

“Pfft,” Michael responds. “Satan speaks to you, personally. No one we’re about to meet can say that. If anyone judges you for not knowing the words of Anton LaVey, you send them to me.”

I make a puzzled face at him. “I don’t get it. LaVey was your mentor for a time, wasn’t he?”

Michael nods. “Sure, he fulfilled an essential role. And I am grateful to him for it. But these congregations that he’s stood up in my father’s name? They’re… well, they’re way off the mark.”

I set the book down in my lap, more confused than ever. “These congregations that we’re going to… in search of devout Satanists… you don’t think they’re getting Satanism right?”

He shakes his head. “No. They’re trying, and I do appreciate the effort. But the world we’ll rebuild will have an entirely different ethos.”

“How so?”

He thinks for a second. “LaVey uses the mythology surrounding my father to his advantage. It’s what men do. It’s what religion _is. _Human interpretation of what divine forces want, twisted in such a way as to help men achieve their own goals.”

“So… what are LaVey’s goals?” I ask.

“For himself? Fame, power, money, sex — same as everyone else.”

“And then what are Satan’s goals?” 

Michael smiles at me. “A world built in my father’s image will obliterate the power structure of men. No gods, no masters. All are equal, and no one will have to worry about being what anyone else expects you to be.” 

I nod, and grab my bag, sliding the book back inside. “OK, fine, I’ll skip Anton for now.” I pull out my copy of the Bible. “I’ve been trying to read this Book of fucking Revelation and I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

At that, Michael tosses his head back, laughing. “That’s because it’s inscrutable. Again, the words of men, who are notoriously unreliable narrators.”

“But when you talk about the prophecy… this is what you’re talking about, right?” I ask, pointing at the chapter.

He nods. “There is truth in there, no doubt. But also a lot of twisting the truth for political gain.”

I nod. “So, when the world ends… will there be trumpets? Bowls? Horsemen and all that?” 

He looks at me, his face bemused, but he also makes sure I can see the seriousness in his eyes. “It has always been my role to entice men to do my father's work. On that day, I will be nine stories underground, with you. And I will make one phone call. After that, the men and women of the Cooperative will execute my father's plan. What may come about — the opening of hell, the rebel angels, the plagues — will happen at the hand of my father, or God, or men. Or it may go down completely differently from what’s written in the prophecy. Either way, my work will be done; you and I can just sit back and watch. Until the ashes settle and it’s time to rebuild.”

I whip out the next book in my bag, _Paradise Lost._ “So… you won’t be battling with swords in a breastplate and skirt?” I ask, pointing to the etching on the book’s cover. 

He laughs. “No, Lucifer wears the angel’s armor, but I’m not an angel.”

“You could say that again,” I say, opening up my bag so I can stuff the books back inside. “Damn. I was looking forward to the show.”

Michael snags _Paradise Lost _out of my hands. “You should read this, though.” He says, examining the cover. “It’s the only one of these books that’s worth your time.”

“Thanks, Professor Langdon,” I say back to him.

He hands the book back to me, his eyebrow arched. “You’ve taught me so much. It’s the least I can do.” His eyes travel down from my face and seem to be scoping out my new dress, and my curves underneath it. He sighs, and I can feel that he’s thinking the same thing I am. _What a waste of a private plane ride. _

***

We arrive in the Bay Area, in an airport that is considerably larger than the one we left behind in the mountains. We head down the little stairs and wait on the tarmac as the guards load our luggage onto a cart. The pilot comes down and talks to Ms. Mead for a bit, then hops back onto the plane and starts to taxi it away. Michael looks at me. “You ready?” he asks.

“Ready for what?”

“To get into character,” he says. One of the guards steps forward and starts walking toward the terminal building. Michael and I fall in line behind him, Ms. Mead behind us, and the second guard with the luggage rack brings up the rear.

It’s clear that our little entourage is going to garner some attention. Our guards are in all-black suits, Ms. Mead is in a black three-piece suit with gunmetal gloves, Michael’s long swooping trench coat – also black – grazes the floor when he walks, and I look a Madame from a Victorian brothel. I’ve got a simple black shift on, but the purple brocade coat I have on over it has a scoop neck and a cinched empire waist that pushes my tits up to the sky, while its long tails hit the floor behind me. And I’ve got an ornate ribbon choker around my neck, from which hangs a beautifully sculpted silver pendant shaped like a goat’s skull. _Oh, yeah. We blend._

After we walk through the double-doors of the terminal, Michael extends his elbow to me, his face stern but his eyes smiling. All we need to do is walk through this building to the other side, where a big shiny black SUV is supposed to be waiting for us. But oh my gosh – all eyes are on us.

I suppose I should expect that a private northern California airport would be full of ridiculously wealthy people; I am having flashbacks to the Summit, which had been held not too far from here, in a high-end resort full of people just like these. As we walk past them, swiftly and purposefully, their reactions vary. Many just look startled to see us. Some seem terrified. But then there are those that seem curious in that way that entitled folks often do, questioning how there could possibly be important-seeming people here that they didn’t know.

It helps that Michael keeps his eyes forward, in a 1,000-yard stare that doesn’t meet anyone else’s gaze. It’s when Michael makes eye contact that you see people get visibly shaken by him. As we pass through the doors on the other side of the airport, we locate a rental car representative holding a sign that says, “Mead.” He’s standing next to our car and as we head toward him, his eyes meet Michael’s, and I see him go white as a ghost. Ms. Mead steps in between them, distracting him with discussion of our contract and drop-off, while Michael slides in one of the SUV’s side doors.

I slide in next to him, and close the door. “I can’t stop watching people watching you,” I say to Michael.

He smiles at me. “Seeing any good reactions?”

“I guess not,” I say. “I just keep thinking that one of them is going to…” I don’t really know how to finish that sentence.

“Freak out?” Michael answers. “Try to kill me? Or join me? Or fuck me?”

I nod. “Yeah, all of those.”

“You’re right to be on the lookout – anything is possible. But we’ll do our best to stay among friends, as often as possible on this trip.”

A guard has taken his position in the driver’s seat, with Ms. Mead riding shotgun. The other guard finishes loading the bags behind us and slides into the SUV’s back row. “To the Black House,” the driver says. And we’re off.


	15. The Black House

I spend the 45-minute ride to the Black House pummeling Ms. Mead with questions about the Black House. I know that it’s where Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan and had served as the Church’s headquarters for more than 50 years. And that he and his cardinals still lived there, along with a rotating cast of Satanic characters. But there are so many details that I still need filled in.

“So, Anton faked his death in 1997 and at that time, you and Ms. Crowe were his cardinals. Did you go into hiding with him?” 

Ms. Mead shakes her head. “I’ve gotten pretty good at adopting new identities. At that time, I took on a new name. And a new husband. But when Anton called me back into service, I… I left that situation behind.”

She and Michael are smirking at each other as she says that, and I suspect there’s a story there that I don’t really want to know. I want her to continue.

“So the three of you followed the signs to find Michael in Los Angeles. And then… did Anton come back to the Black House right after that? Did all the Satanists freak the fuck out?”

Ms. Mead laughs. “Absolutely. They thought he’d been dead for 20 years. They’d chosen a new leader and new cardinals, and had kept everything rolling along into the 21st century.”

“And what did Anton tell them? That he’d found the Antichrist but… left him down in L.A? Why didn’t he bring Michael back?”

Michael chimes in. “His role was to find me and connect me to my father. And then resume his normal work until I was ready to rise. He didn’t tell a soul who I was.”

I nod, starting to connect some of the dots, in my head. “That’s why people weren’t sure what to think when you surfaced at the Church in L.A.” 

Michael nods. “This will be the first time Anton steps forward and reveals my identity to his followers. Most of them have doubted my existence for years, and now he will finally confirm who I am, and what I’m here to do.”

More pieces are falling into place now. And just in time; we’re pulling up in front of the Black House. It’s a fairly standard house, in a neighborhood of San Francisco called the Richmond District. Except the house had been painted entirely black, which gives it a pretty imposing presence on this otherwise average residential street. 

We pile out of the car and step onto the front walkway. Michael again offers me his arm, and we stand facing the house while Ms. Mead walks up the porch stairs and knocks on the front door. A moment later, it opens, and a tiny woman with short hair in a long black cloak peeks her head out. When she sees Ms. Mead, she shrieks, “Miriam!,” rushes out the door, and throws her arms around Ms. Mead. My jaw drops watching the two of them; they hug and laugh and jump up and down like reunited college roommates.

“Whoa,” I mumble. Michael chuckles, trying to keep his face straight. 

“They’re here!” the woman yells back into the house, and then she rushes down the stairs to us, her arms out. “Michael, my boy!” she exclaims, reaching up to place her hands on his shoulders. He enfolds her in a warm hug.

“Ms. Crowe, I’m delighted to see you again,” he says. He steps back and gestures to me. “Let me introduce you to Ms. Evelyn Florence,” he says.

She turns to face me. “Oh, dear girl,” she says. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Samantha Crowe, First Cardinal of the Church of Satan.” Ms. Crowe is tiny, her voice is squeaky, and her lipstick is as red as the satin lining of her cloak. She gives off a quirky and intense vibe, but I can see that her affection for Michael is genuine, and I smile back at her. 

“A pleasure,” I say, offering my hand, but she dismisses it and throws her arms around me as well. I laugh and hug her back. She points at the house. “Come in! Come in, all of you.”

We start to walk toward the house, but first I snatch my iPad from my purse, turn around and take a quick selfie of me with the Black House in the background. I send it to Sasha. She immediately responds, “Ooh, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Inside, we are met with, well, exactly what I’d expected the interior to look like. Red carpet, black walls, antique-looking furniture with red upholstery, and black candles everywhere. The entryway opens into a large chapel-like space, arranged facing a huge silver Sigil of Baphomet. 

“Through here,” Ms. Crowe says, and we follow her through a door in the side of the chapel, into a formal living room, also decked out in red and black. We all stand there expectantly for a moment, then a set of double doors on the other side of the room opens, and Anton LaVey walks in. He’s followed by another man, and both of them are wearing the type of long cloak as Ms. Crowe. I have a quick chance to size Anton up; he looks identical to all of the photos I’d seen of him in the 90’s — bald head, sinister eyebrows — as though he hadn’t aged at all during his 20 years in hiding.

They cross the room, Anton quickly looks Michael in the eyes and says, “My Lord,” before he and the other man fall to their knees before Michael. I notice that Ms. Crowe is doing the same, but Ms. Mead continues standing, smirking at Michael just a little bit.

“Rise, Anton, rise,” Michael says, holding out his hand, which Anton takes. Then Michael pulls him up and the two of them embrace. 

The other man steps up, extending his hand. “Adam Fowler,” he says. “Second Cardinal of the Church of Satan.” He’s about the same age as me, and looks exactly like half the Satanist men I’d known — tall and gaunt with long black hair. 

Next it’s my turn to get introduced, handshakes and pleasantries all around. Everyone settles into the couches and chairs in the seating area, and a woman in something like a 1960’s era maid’s uniform enters and takes drink orders. When she leaves, Anton starts speaking to the group.

“I’m honored to have you all in my home. I know you’ve had a long day of travel, so all we have planned tonight is a quiet dinner with just us,” he says, gesturing around the room. “I wanted us to have a chance to plan how we want the rest of your visit to go.”

Michael bows his head to Anton. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He continues. “I know you can only take a select few members to your Sanctuary, so I don’t want to parade our whole membership in front of you for questioning. But I want to make sure you get a feel for what our congregation is like.”

Michael nods. “So what do you have planned?”

Anton gives a twisted little smile. “A costume party. You can attend incognito, and observe our members without them knowing they’re in your presence. And if some of them are interesting to you? We’ll invite them back the next day and you can question them.”

“That sounds excellent,” Michael says. He looks at me. “We just need some costumes.” 

Ms. Crowe speaks up. “You’re in luck. We’ve got an extensive collection downstairs and I’m sure we can find something that’ll work for you both. Do you want to come take a look right now?” she asks me.

I look at Michael, confusion on my face. “Sure?” I say. 

I see his eyes dart to Ms. Mead, to Anton, and back to me. He shrugs at me, and says, “Sure, go ahead.” I nod at Ms. Crowe. She stands up and I follow her out of the room. 

She heads down a flight of stairs, and as we’re descending, I ask her, “Did I just get unceremoniously booted from that room?” 

She laughs. “Maybe a little. It’s for the best. Anton has some tough questions for Michael and he wants to ask them in a smaller group.” 

She turns left at the bottom of the stairs and I follow her. “OK,” I say. “Can you give me a hint what it’s about? I’m the one who will have to deal with the fallout later…”

She stop and turns to face me, placing her hand on mine. “Don’t worry. Administrative stuff. Outpost assignments. You’re not missing anything juicy.” She heads into a pitch-black room and I follow her in, not knowing what I’m about to get myself into.

***

Ms. Crowe feels around for a light switch, then sighs in exasperation. “Mario!” she hisses. “I thought you were still down here?” 

The light flips on and I jump back; there is a man standing just a few feet from us. “I was resting my eyes,” he says. I take him in; he’s exceptionally tall, with a wild mop of curly black hair, deep soulful brown eyes, and bushy, animated eyebrows. He’s wearing an argyle cardigan over a black v-neck t-shirt that proudly displays his chest hair. His fingernails are metallic purple, and his combat boots have holographic glitter on their steel toes. Before he even says a word, I smile at him; I can tell that this guy is a kindred spirit.

“Mario,” he says, extending his hand. “You’re Evelyn?” He asks. 

I nod, taking his hand. Ms. Crowe cuts in. “Mario is our Chief Administrator. He’s been a part of the Church his whole life, and we’d all be lost without him.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He gives me a gracious little head nod. Ms. Crowe starts to back away. “I’m going to make sure everything is going OK upstairs. You’re in good hands with Mario,” she says, and turns and runs back up the stairs.

“What the fuck?” I wonder aloud.

Mario laughs. “Adults must be speaking.” I give him a look, and he holds his hands up. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I get this shit all the time, since I’m not a cardinal anymore.”

“You used to be one?” I ask.

He nods. “Until Anton came back from the dead,” he says, waving his fingers and shaping his mouth like he’s saying, “Oooh.”

I smile at that. “You got demoted?”

He points at me. “Bingo. You get high?” he asks, digging his hand into his jeans pocket.

I shake my head. “Not at the moment,” I say, pointing at my belly.

He pulls a vape pen out of his pocket and takes a sizeable hit. “Oh shit, yeah. Come on,” he says, walking further back into the enormous storage area; we enter a section full of ritual supplies. An entire wall is covered with clothing racks full of robes and cloaks. The far wall has shelves full of statues, candles, knives, and a bunch of black trunks. And then the other wall is covered with racks of costumes.

I gesture to the costumes. “What exactly are these for?” I ask.

“Performances. Over the years, we’ve staged a lot of interpretations of the usual rituals that incorporate history, or biblical figures, or even pop culture, mostly just for fun,” he says, pulling out a Beetlejuice costume to punctuate his point. 

“You’ve been around for a while?” I ask.

He nods. “I was born into the church. I was baptized by Anton himself when I was two months old,” he says, rifling through the racks of clothes.

“Wow.”

“I was just a kid when Anton died, and the newly-appointed high priest made my father a cardinal. I was 25 when my father died, and I was given his spot. But then Anton came back, and he gave Ms. Crowe my spot, and I got this bullshit job,” he says, gesturing around the room.

“What do you do?”

He looks me in the eye. “Fucking everything. I plan events, make sure we’re staffed, take care of the house, make travel arrangements. All the administrative crap they don’t want to do.” 

“And you… don’t like it?”

He shakes his head. “No, I actually do. And I’m really fucking good at it. I’m just stewing a bit today because, once again, I’m being left out of the planning. I can already see how it’ll go down — Michael Langdon will come and go, they’ll make their list of who’s going with him, and then hand the list to me and tell me to pack their shit. But nowhere in there will I get considered.”

I look up at him, puzzled. “_They_ don’t decide who Michael is bringing, Michael does. You want to talk to him?”

He looks back at me, eyes wide. “You can make that happen?”

I laugh in response. “Of course.”

He comes over to me and takes my hands in his. “If you’re serious… I’ll be forever in your debt.”

I wave my hand. “It’s nothing. Just hook me up with two great costumes.”

“Done,” he says, turning back to the wall of clothes. “We got lots of clergy, here. You wanna be a nun? A priest?” 

I laugh at that. “I think… we need something that will cover Michael’s hair, and maybe some of his face. He needs to go unnoticed. I’m probably fine in whatever; no one knows who I am.”

He nods, continuing to rummage through the options. “Vampire?” he asks, pulling out a puffy shirt and purple vest. “Death?” he offers, holding out a black hooded cloak.

“Those are basically his everyday clothes,” I say, and Mario laughs. 

“Roman soldier?” he asks next, pulling out a breastplate and helmet. 

“Oooh,” I say. “That could work. We were just talking about how sad I was that he wouldn’t get to wear Lucifer’s armor. You have wings that you could add to that?”

Mario nods. “Yeah, we got like a dozen pairs of wings. If we did that…” he continues, “you could do something Roman goddess-esque,” he says, moving down to the women’s section and pulling out a white gown with gold cord ties. 

I nod. “Yup, I think that’s it,” I say. “Mind if I try it on?”

“Go ahead,” he says, continuing to gather the pieces of Michael’s costume. 

I duck behind the rack to get a little cover, by the wall with all the black trunks on it. “What is _in _these?” I ask.

He cranes his neck around to look at me, smirking. “See for yourself,” he says. I grab the nearest one, unhook the latch, and tip the lid open. 

“Holy shit,” I remark. The trunk is packed full of bondage gear — harnesses, gags, cuffs, you name it. “Who does all this belong to?”

He shrugs. “I guess it’s communal? Anton founded this church in the era of free love. In the early days, a lot of the rituals would devolve into orgies, essentially.”

“Oh, I’ve seen pictures,” I say. 

He smiles proudly. “I was conceived at one of those. Anyway… some of that spirit remains intact at this congregation.”

“Damn,” I say. “That was not the case in Chicago.”

We are interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps clomping down the stairs. We both look toward the door and a visibly pissed-off Michael stomps in. He scans the room, his eyes pausing on Mario for just a moment, then he stomps over to me. 

“I needed to get away from their bullshit,” he says, then promptly turns away from me and starts pacing, grunting out his words angrily. “I owe Anton a lot, and I’ll give him what he’s due, but he keeps trying to take more.”

Mario and I stand stunned, watching him, wordlessly. He continues, “We can’t take in _all _of his people. His new cardinal… I don’t know who that guy is… why should I trust him?” He looks at us. 

I think that was a rhetorical question, but poor Mario doesn’t know any better. “Who, Adam? Go ahead and let that guy burn.”

I put my hand on Mario’s arm and give him a look that says, _Shhh._

“Oh, sorry,” Mario responds. “It’s just… he’s my ex-boyfriend.”

Michael sighs, exasperated. “Who the fuck are you?” he blurts at Mario. 

Mario extends his hand, “Mario Esposito, Chief Administrator. And your costumer,” he says.

I cut in. “And he’s gonna leave the room now,” I say, ushering him past Michael. I lean in close to him and murmur, “Just give us a moment.” 

I watch him walk out the storage room door, then I turn back and face Michael. Most people would be afraid of him in this pissed-off state, but I have to admit that his frenzied energy, the stomping, the swearing… it totally turns me on. I haven’t seen him this angry in a while. _Not since the day we took our first plane ride together. Remember how that ended? _I walk up to him and take his hands in mine. He takes a deep breath in and out, steadying himself. 

I try to talk to him in a voice that’s soothing, but not condescending. “It’s hard to believe, but it was just yesterday that we stood on the precipice over your father’s kingdom,” I say to him, looking deeply into his eyes. “He blessed our union, blessed this journey. And then you fucked me senseless.”

That gets a smile out of him, so I continue, “You cannot lose sight of who you are, of what you’re here to do.”

He nods. “All true, but I’m so sick of being underestimated.”

I slide my hands up his forearms. “You’re just a big ball of tension right now,” I say. “You need a release.”

He looks down at me, his eyebrow arched. I continue running my hands up his arms and clasp them behind his neck. He drops his head down and touches his forehead to mine, and we relax into the silence for a moment. I expect his breathing to ease up, but he’s still fuming. Practically panting. “Let me help,” I say to him, dropping my hands down to his belt buckle.

I drop to my knees and get to work. Under different circumstances, I’d take some time to ease him into this, but I don’t know how much time we have so I dive into in. I yank his pants and underwear down in one quick move, grab his hips, and take his whole cock into my mouth, immediately. He gasps and reaches both hands out to brace himself against the shelves behind him. I bob my head up and down, sucking gently to get him started, while his erection is still working it’s way up to its full size.

Once he gets there, I feel my head start swimming with desire. I want to please him, but more than that, I want to remind him that he’s the one in control. That I, like everyone else, am at his mercy. I wrap my hand around his cock, ease my mouth off of it, and look up at him. “Choke me,” I breathily request. 

A sinister smile spreads across his face. He doesn’t say anything, but reaches down and grabs the back of my head, entwining his fingers in my hair and gripping a handful of it firmly. He gives me a look that says, _Like this?_ And I nod up at him. I start to lean forward again, my mouth watering, but he grips my hair and holds me back, his cock just out of my reach. I look back up at him. 

He holds my gaze for just a moment, his eyes glowering and his nostrils flaring. When he speaks up, his voice is low, dead-serious. “You _want_ me to choke you?” He asks. I nod again. “You should be careful what you wish for.” And then he shoves my head forward, his cock sliding past my tongue and into the back of my throat. 

Caught a little off-guard, the initial impact causes me to gag for a moment. But then I relax my throat and calm myself by breathing steadily through my nose, and I am able to accommodate him. He keeps pushing me forward, until my nose touches his belly. He lets out a long, low groan, and my head starts swimming again. And then he’s yanking me back by my hair again. 

Which does hurt… but I don’t mind it one bit. We fall into a rhythm; he shoves my head forward and backward, thrusting into my mouth, and I do the best I can to keep my lips wrapped around his cock and to keep suction going. I keep my neck totally relaxed, letting him set the pace. And the pace is definitely working for him; his keeps his movements slow, but his groaning intensifies.

“You’re such a good little servant. You always know exactly what I need,” he says between moans. It’s about the most perfect thing he could say to me, but all I can do is let out a muffled moan in response. He adds his other hand to the back of my head, grabbing more of my hair, picking up the speed. “You asked for it,” he says, and then he thrusts his cock in extra-deep, holding my head in place with both hands. A long and delicious cry escapes his lips; I close my lips around the base and do my best to start swallowing, but the tip is blocking the back of my throat such that I can’t quite do it, and when he starts to come, I nearly start choking. _Breathe, girl, breathe. _I fight the impulse to panic, trying to resume the steady breathing through my nose. _Just hold on until he’s done._

When his cries die out, he loosens his grip on my hair and I can back my mouth off of him. I manage to keep sucking for a few moments longer, to make sure I’ve swallowed every drop of his load. And then I throw my head back and gasp for air. Michael quickly drops down to his knees and cups my chin in his hands. “Are you all right?” he asks, the worry audible in his voice. 

I take a few more deep gasps, and then I look at him, a smile slowly spreading across my face. “I am perfect,” I say. 

He traces his fingers down my throat. “Doesn’t it hurt?” he asks. 

I shrug. “Sure, a little. But… it’s intoxicating. I can’t get enough of it,” I say. He leans in to kiss me, and we stay right there for a while, kneeling on the floor, making out like teenagers.

Eventually he comes up for air and hugs me tight. I look over his shoulder at the rest of the storeroom, wondering if Mario went upstairs, of if he’s still within earshot. As if on cue, I spot a twinkle of light near the floor just outside the door to the room. It catches my eye and I squint at it; it’s the holographic glitter on the toes of Mario’s boots. He’d been just outside the door this whole time.

I decide not to call him out in front of Michael. He’s in a happy place right now, and it’d defeat the whole purpose of getting him off if he just got angry all over again.

Michael sits back and starts putting his pants back together. “I have to head back upstairs. But I am in a much better mood now,” he says, grinning at me.

“Excellent,” I say. “Hey, for your costume, we were thinking you could dress like an archangel. In Roman soldier armor.”

He cocks his head, considering. “The archangels wore the armor of Byzantine officers. Is that what we’ve got?”

I hop up and grab the helmet that Mario had suggested. “I doubt it… I think this is just a generic ‘gladiator’ costume. But… the helmet will cover your face pretty well. And I think it’s sexy.”

He chuckles. “Sure, that’ll do. What about you?” 

“Well, something goddess-ey. We were working on that when you came in and... interrupted us.”

Michael laughs. “I’ll let you get back to it.” 

I escort him to the door of the storeroom. As we approach the door, I see Mario’s shoes step backwards, disappearing into the shadowy hallway. I pointedly say to Michael, “If you see Mario, tell him to come back down.”

Michael turns back to me, gives me a last kiss, and says, “Will do. And I thank you, my love. For knowing exactly what I needed.” He winks at me as he turns to walk back up the stairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, I kinda wrote myself into a corner with this chapter. I had a vision of where things were going with Mario’s character, and some of the choices I made in the earlier version weren’t working for me. Which is why it’s taken me like six weeks to get going on the next chapter! So I’ve revised a bit, here.


	16. The Assistant

I wait for Michael to finish ascending the stairs, then I step into the dimly lit hallway to scout around for Mario. The hallway turns just past the stairs, and as I round the corner, I find a sheepish-looking Mario, his eyes lowered toward the ground.

“What the actual fuck?” I demand.

He holds his hands up, palms out, and finally meets my eyes. “It was not my intention to spy. At least, not at first.”

“Yeah? And?” I say.

“You asked me to leave, so I tried to go upstairs, but Anton was right at the top, so I had to come back down. I tried to give you some privacy, and I succeeded… for a while.”

I make an annoyed face at him, growing impatient. “So you stayed down here to hide from Anton. And spying on us was just… a perk?”

He looks at the ground again. “Yeah, I guess. You two are… mesmerizing.”

I sigh. “Well, I have to tell Michael about this.” He nods. He looks like he’s about to start crying, which I don’t think I can handle, so I try to distract him. I start walking back into the storeroom, gesturing for him to follow me. “So, what’s the deal with you and Anton?”

When I look back at him, he’s reaching down into a cardboard box atop a giant pile of party supplies. He pulls out a bottle of water and holds it out to me. “Thirsty?” he asks, his eyes twinkling.

I feel my cheeks flush, but I’m grateful; my throat is killing me. I take the bottle and start to drink, gesturing to him to keep talking.

“Anton doesn’t know I am here today. He doesn’t want me to interact with you two.”

“But Ms. Crowe introduced me to you,” I say, walking back over to where I’d left my costume.

He nods. “She’s on my side. She and my dad were pretty close, before he died, and she’s always looked out for me. She’s the one who told me who Michael is, told me you were coming, said she’d make sure that we got to meet. If it were up to Anton… that’d never happen.”

“Why not?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath. “As much as he was a fan of free love when he founded the church, he’s got some weirdly conservative ideas. About gender roles, about politics, stuff like that.”

“Ohhh yeah,” I respond, remembering. “I was warned to never read _The Satanic Witch_ for that reason.”

Mario rolls his eyes. “That book is such garbage. Anyway, the church changed a lot while he was gone. A fact that he’s tried to ignore. But he couldn’t ignore finding me in bed with his newly-appointed cardinal.”

“That would be Adam?”

He nods. “We were in love once, but Anton turned him against me. Now he just wants me out of the picture entirely.”

I nod, considering this. “Well, I don’t think any of that would mater to Michael. You have as much of a chance as anyone to join us at the Sanctuary, I would think.”

“Even after you tell him about the spying?”

I smile to myself. “As it happens, on the night we met, he spied on me when I was fucking my ex-girlfriend so… he may not be too judgey about that.”

Mario looks back at me, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

I nod, growing flushed again, remembering that night.

He shakes his head. “Y’all are freaks. Damn, I hope I can come with you.” I laugh at that.

***

I try on my goddess gown, we finish pulling together the pieces of Michael’s costume, and Mario stuffs the whole lot into a plastic bag for me. When I’m ready to head back upstairs, he pulls me in for a hug.

“It’s been an honor to spend time with you,” he says. “If you can talk to Michael for me, great. If not, I understand.”

I let my hands linger on his shoulders for a bit. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I start up the stairs and Mario heads back into the shadows. He’ll duck out of the house a little later, when he’s less likely to be spotted.

When I meet back up with the others in the living room, Michael is standing at the front window, sipping a glass of red wine and looking out, contemplative. Ms. Mead and Ms. Crowe are on the loveseat, lost in their own giggly conversation, catching up on the events of the years they’ve been separated.

Anton and Adam are nowhere to be seen. I set the costumes down, walk over to Michael, and rest my chin on his shoulder. “How’s it going?” I ask.

He takes a long gulp from his glass. “It’s fine. I’m glad we’re on this trip, but it’s going to get tricky at times.”

I wrap my arms around his waist. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”

He sets his glass down and wraps his arms around me. We stand there, leaning into each other and enjoying the silence, punctuated though it is by Ms. Crowe’s screeching laughter.

Eventually I look up at him and ask, in a lowered voice, “So, what’s happening?”

Michael quietly responds. “When we leave San Francisco, Anton will still come with us. I’ve insisted that I’ll only evaluate Adam the same as I do the other members, tomorrow.”

I nod. “This congregation seems to have a real ‘old guard, new guard’ thing going on.”

His eyes widen. “Right? And I think I might be on the side of the new guard. I owe Anton a lot, but he’s stuck in a bygone era.”

I smile up at him. “In that case, I want you to consider Mario, the guy in the basement.”

“The costume guy?”

I nod. “He’s their Chief Administrator and could be a good assistant for you? I dunno. I just think he’s endearing.”

Michael smirks down at me. “Even though he was watching us?”

My jaw drops. “How did you know?”

He doesn’t answer, he just cocks his brow at me.

“OK, fine. Yes. He was a little enchanted by us. But I don’t see that as such a bad thing…”

Michael chuckles at me. “You never stop surprising me, Eve.” He leans down and kisses me, and I feel my own version of enchantment. This has been a whirlwind of an evening, but I think I’ve managed to please him. I close my eyes, feeling the sense of fulfillment that only comes when I know I’ve served him well.


	17. The Ensemble

Shortly thereafter, Anton returns -- without Adam -- and everyone sits down to have dinner. It’s served to us by more women in throwback maid costumes, and the wine flows freely. Well, flows for everyone but me. Any of the tension still present in the room begins to melt away as the group drinks, reminiscing, and getting amped up for the tasks ahead of us.

I, however, am struggling to keep my eyes open. The travel, the time zones, the passion, the drama – it’s all too much for my body to handle, seeing as how it is also doing the work of growing a human. I hang in there until about 9:30pm, and then I lean in and whisper to Michael, “I cannot stay awake another moment.”

He smiles at me, he speech *slightly* slurred, and says, “We need to get you to bed, don’t we?” He and the security guards get to work lugging my trunks up the stairs to the room we’ll be sleeping in.

The house has five bedrooms – Anton and Ms. Crowe have the suites on the third floor, and Ms. Mead will be bunking with Ms. Crowe. On the second floor are three modest-sized guest rooms, and we’d been given the one at the end of the hall. Anton had explained that they weren’t the poshest accommodations, but that room offered a locking door, which we would appreciate when the house was full of partiers the next night.

I don’t care. I want a bed, and I want it now. I say some speedy goodnights to our hosts, and Michael escorts me up the stairs. I go to use the restroom, and when I return, he is sprawled across the bed, still fully clothed but looking like he’s about to pass out as well. I get in, he snuggles up next to me, and props himself up on one elbow.

Looking down at me, he strokes my hair and speaks in a soft voice. “What a day,” he marvels.

I nod, my eyes bewildered. “This has felt like a whole week packed into one day. I still don’t feel like I’ve recovered from last night, even.”

He smiles, remembering our little trip to see his father. “Me, neither. There hasn’t been time to process it all, really. I think that we will have some downtime on this trip, though, to work it through a bit more. And for you to practice your magic.”

I chuckle. “Yes, please. I’m afraid that the next time I give it a try I’m going to accidentally burn the house down.” And then I yawn. Michael lays his head down on the pillow next to me.

“Get some rest,” he says. “We’ll pick it all back up tomorrow.” I lean forward and kiss him, feeling my eyelids drifting closed.

He stays with me until I’ve fallen asleep, which is only a matter of minutes, and then he adjourns back downstairs to continue with the revelry.

***

And I sleep. For about ten hours. It’s clear that my body needed me to let up on it a little bit, and when I wake the next morning, I feel like a new woman.

I look over at Michael, sleeping his usual sleep of the dead. I watch him for a few minutes, because I can never help myself — the surreality of his stillness is hard to ignore. It’s like he turns into a marble statue every night, and then just snaps back to life every morning. 

I could lay here all morning, but after a long night with my baby wedged up against my bladder, my body is crying out for a restroom break, so I have to get up. I throw on a robe, unlock our door and step into the hallway, and nearly smack right into one of our security guards, sitting on a stool outside our door.

“Oh!,” I exclaim. “Good morning!” Followed by, “Wait, have you been here all night?” 

He nods. “In shifts. Rodney is taking his rest break now.” 

“Rodney,” I repeat. “I feel like an asshole; I don’t know your name.”

He smiles. “It’s fine. I’m Tony.” 

I give a little nod. “Thank you. And thank you for… being here all night! It’s very reassuring.”

He shrugs. “You’re very welcome. It’s what we do, ma’am.”

I pad down the hall to use the restroom, and once that’s done I realize that I am starving. I glance at myself in the mirror to make sure my lounging clothes aren’t too revealing — this set is not bad. A long purple silk nightgown and a black brocade robe. Some of the other items I brought would… not be appropriate for viewing by anyone other than Michael.

I head downstairs, and the house is totally silent. The quiet is calming, and it reminds me of all those mornings I’ve spent in the kitchen, alone with my thoughts, while the world was still sleeping. I pass through the dining room, where it’s clear that the party had continued long past when the maids had gone home. Empty wine bottles, dirty glasses, full ashtrays, and burnt-out candles litter the table. At the end of the long table is a velvet-lined case, left open and proudly displaying what I can only image was Anton’s knife collection. _Is this what they do in the wee hours of the morning? Blood magic?_ I sigh and admit to myself that I don’t want to know.

I find my way to the kitchen, which is surprisingly spotless. The maids had seen to that before they left. I start opening and closing doors, scouting what food is in the house. I stumble across a pantry full of baking staples and my face breaks into a grin. I suspect it’ll be a few hours before the rest of them awake, which gives me plenty of time to make something, which is exactly the kind of distraction my mind needs right now. I figure out how to start their coffee pot, and go foraging for ingredients. 

I’m slow to get started, working in an unfamiliar kitchen, but eventually, I get into my groove and start to work on some maple pecan streusel muffins. As my hands are busy, I let my mind wander, and retread the events of the last few days. Our visit to see Michael’s father, my newly acquired skillset, my ultrasound and our conversation about our baby’s gender, the plane ride, what Michael had to say about the Book of Revelation, meeting Mario, the events that unfolded in the basement… it’s a lot. Since the moment I’d received the invitation to the Summit last Spring, my life has been a non-stop parade of dramatic moments, and most days, I just hang on for the ride and feel grateful.

I find myself appreciating this moment of solace, though, just to marvel at it all. To breathe, and to make sure I still feel grounded. Once the first batch of muffins is in the oven, I stand still for a moment, and take a few deep breaths, trying to tap into the energy in the air. I find that, despite the drama… I am feeling pretty serene. Forever wary of what lies before us, but optimistic. And as always, grateful for the role into which I have been placed, and grateful that Michael – so far – is pleased with me.

A few deep breaths later, I decide I’m feeling centered enough, and set about the task of cleaning up the mess I’ve made. As I place my hand on one of the cabinet knobs, I feel a spark of static electricity, which plants a little seed in my head. Those newfound skills – this could be a good time to practice them. I open the cabinet and spy the spot on the top shelf where the baking powder is supposed to go. I grab the can and place it on the counter before me. I stare at it, and try to channel the energy in the room. I visualize it lifting just one inch off the counter, and I focus on it with everything I’ve got… but it doesn’t budge.

I’m standing like that, both hands braced against the counter, staring intently at the little can of baking powder, when Michael enters the room, wearing only his black satin pajama pants, and asking, “What smells so amazing?” But when he sees me, he breaks into warm laughter.

I look at him. “Muffins,” I answer. I check the timer. “Just a few more minutes.”

He nods. “And what are you doing, there?”

I sigh. “Telekinesis? In theory? I am not having much luck, though.” He crosses the room, steps behind me, and wraps his arms around my waist.

“Good morning,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

I crane my neck around and look up at him. “Good morning,” I answer, pleased to see him, but the frustration still audible in my voice. We both look down at the can on the counter.

With his arms still wrapped around me, he asks, “Let me guess… you want to move it up to the shelf, and you’re visualizing it lifting off the counter?”

I nod.

“A question for you: When you healed the cut in my arm, what did you visualize?”

I think on that for a second. “I guess… your arm with no cut in it.”

“Right. You didn’t visualize the path to achieve it. You didn’t see my skin cells getting bound back together; you only saw the result you wanted.”

I nod. “I guess that’s right, yes.”

“Well,” he says, “magic is all about intention. Your intention is to get the can where it belongs, not to levitate it one inch off the counter. Try again, but only visualize it where you want it.”

I take another breath, close my eyes, and do what he’d asked. I don’t picture the path the can would take to get there; I just picture it where I want it, on the top shelf. And when I open my eyes and make another effort to channel the energy in the room, it glides effortlessly off the counter, up about 24 inches, and lands right where I’d wanted it to. I whip around and face him. “How did you do that?”

He laughs. “I didn’t do anything; you did it.”

I look up at him, amazement in my eyes. “You’re a good teacher,” I say.

He shrugs. “I guess I have to admit that I learned _a little _something from those warlocks. It’s an important thing to understand about magic. You set your intention, and the magic helps you get there… but it doesn’t always take the path you’d expect.”

I nod, considering this. “So that little can could’ve, say, taken three laps around the room first?”

He smiles. “That’s not exactly likely… but that’s the idea, yes.”

Just then the timer beeps, and I wriggle away from Michael to attend to our breakfast, calling over my shoulder, “There’s coffee.”

He makes a pleasant groaning noise, and goes to pour himself some. While I am dealing with the muffins and the remaining kitchen clean-up, Michael blows my mind by repeatedly making trips into the dining room to bring in the glasses and bottles that they’d abandoned there last night. Within a few minutes, we’re sitting around a tidied dining room table, sipping our coffee around a cooling plate of muffins. Michael kicks his feet up onto an empty chair near him and whips out his phone. I chuckle to see him so comfortable and casual in this house that I still find pretty intimidating.

***

The two of us are alone downstairs for about 90 minutes before another soul emerges from their bedrooms. Ms. Crowe descends the stairs, yawning as she comes, but appearing pretty well put-together in her smart black suit and freshly made-up face. Her first sip of coffee leaves a bright red ring of lipstick on the cup. Next is Ms. Mead, then Anton. I move away from the table to make more room for the second round of breakfasters, though Michael makes no similar effort. He’s still taking up an extra chair for his feet, still wearing no shirt, still staring at his phone. For a moment, he reminds me of a college-aged kid, home for a visit to his parents’ house, and that thought makes me chuckle.

We let the morning waste away, devouring muffins, chitchatting, passing the newspaper around, and checking our various devices. It’s a nice quiet morning, but I can feel the hum of anticipation in the air. Tonight’s ritual will start at 8:00pm, and the inner circle folks will start showing up throughout the afternoon to oversee preparations. Anton is expecting about 40 guests, most of whom will stick around after the mass for libations and… I’m not sure what else. They keep referring pretty generally to “revelry,” but I don’t ask them to elaborate on what that entails. I’d spent quite a few evenings watching the Cooperative members celebrate, and I’m envisioning something kinda like that.

When everyone is done eating, I take the remaining muffins into the kitchen. I’m scrounging around, looking for a bag to store them in, when the back door slams open and Mario stomps in, laden with grocery bags and talking loudly into his wireless headset. I rush over and grab a few bags from him. He mouths, _Thank you!_ at me, but continues his conversation. “Sure, he can leave the drum kit here, but just for tonight.” He sounds exasperated. “I’m serious. Tell him that if they’re still around tomorrow afternoon, I _will_ put them out by the curb.”

He ends his call and lets the remaining bags crash to the floor. “Hi, love!” he says to me with a bright new energy. He leans in and kisses my cheek.

“Hungry?” I ask, holding out the plate with the last two muffins.

His eyes widen. “Shit, yeah,” he says, grabs one and shoves about half of it into his mouth in one bite. “Sweet Lucifer, this is good!” he exclaims through his full mouth. I laugh. I help him move all the bags onto the kitchen table, nosily peeking at their contents. There is standard party stuff – limes, olives, cocktail napkins – and some less typical items. Like several quarts of blood from the local butcher.

I hold one up. “Goat?” I ask, turning my head to read the handwritten label.

He nods. “Two quarts of goat’s blood, two quarts of the fake corn syrup kind, for our vegetarian friends,” he says, taking the one container from me and moving them all to the fridge. He continues putting away his various groceries, until Michael walks in, carrying his empty cup.

Mario stops, visibly shaken at the sight of Michael in his pajama pants, but he clears his throat and does his best to recover. “Sir,” he says, extending his hand.

Michael sets his cup in the sink and takes Mario’s hand. “Mario, is it?” Michael asks.

He nods, seeming thrilled that Michael knows his name.

Michael really pours on the charm, more so than I’d seen from him in quite a while. “They tell me that you’re pretty indispensible around here,” he says.

Mario blushes. “I do my best, sir, to be of service.”

“They’re lucky to have you. Someone with such a robust institutional memory,” Michael continues.

Mario shrugs. “Everything I am, I owe to this house, to this church, to your father.”

I take a step back and just watch the two of them, a bemused little smile on my face. Mario cannot conceal how smitten he is by Michael, and Michael seems visibly flattered by it. As they continue chatting, I busy myself with the dirty cups and plates, making a halfhearted effort to hide the fact that I am indeed listening to every word. They discuss some of the festivities planned for this evening, a bit more of Mario’s background. When Mario’s phone starts buzzing again, he excuses himself and heads to the back porch to take the call.

He turns to me. “ I suppose I should get dressed for the day,” he says.

I nod in Mario’s direction. “What do you think?” I ask.

Michael nods. “I like him,” he says, simply. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Eventually he gives me a little smile. “I need a little more to go off of, than that four-minute conversation. But so far, I agree. He seems like he’s got potential.”

I smile. “Oh, good,” I say, excitedly. I’m not 100% sure why, but I’d taken a liking to Mario from the moment I met him, and it warmed my heart to think I could help him out. I pause a second before adding, “I have to ask, though… It’s pretty obvious that he’s got a big ole crush on you. Would that present a problem?”

Michael laughs loudly. “Oh, Eve,” he says, shaking his head at me. I stare back at him blankly. He points his thumb at Mario. “Sure, that guy wants to fuck me. But – to state it plainly – pretty much everyone does.”

“Oh,” I say, a little embarrassed.

He shrugs. “It’s an occupational hazard, I guess. I can see into the places where people hide their desires. And more often that not, at least some of what people desire… is me.”

I nod, considering this. “Everyone, huh?”

He laughs again. “No, not _everyone._ All of them, for example,” he says, pointing back at the dining room. “They see me as a son. It’s a relief, really, to be surrounded by people who don’t want something from me.”

My brow is still furrowed as I think about this. I’m a little taken aback by dual realizations: 1) that this is something Michael has to deal with every day, and 2) that I have as much _competition_ as I apparently do. “For months, I’ve been watching these Co-op members fall all over each other to please you, to get your attention. And I assumed it was motivated by fear. And love, I guess… but the kind of love people feel for their spiritual leaders. And you’re saying… most of them also want to fuck you.”

He nods and says, “Yup,” plainly.

“Doesn’t that get… distracting? Doesn’t it make it hard to focus on your work?”

He shakes his head. “Not for me, it doesn’t. Remember, I had no interest in any of that until recently,” he says, he eyebrow rising into a knowing smirk, making my heart flutter. He continues, “It’s only a problem when _they_ feel conflicted about it.”

“And people feel conflicted because of… who you are?”

He shifts his weight against the counter, looking up at the ceiling as he considers this. “Oh, for so many reasons. People are riddled with hang-ups, you know. Because they’ve been raised Christian, but I’m Satan’s son. Because they think they’re not attracted to men. Or just because they can’t have me.” His head snaps down and he points at me. “Your coworker. What’s-her-name. She’s a fine example.”

“Ah, yes. Sharon,” I say, a knot rising in my throat as I remember watching Michael turn her to dust.

He nods. “Yeah. She was so jealous of you, it was tearing her apart. The ugliness in her heart was never going to subside. I could just see it, plain as day.”

Mario’s voice starts to waft in from the back porch, where he sounds like he’s wrapping up his call. “OK, go on up and get dressed,” I say to him. “But I don’t think I am done asking you questions about this!”

He steps over to me, wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in close for a long, heavy kiss. “I’m not done with you, either,” he says, breathily. And then his smirk returns, he pulls away from me, and saunters out the kitchen door.

***

The rest of the afternoon breezes by surprisingly quickly. Michael and I take turns getting showered and dressed in our daytime clothes. Anton takes Michael into his library for a while to review a whole bunch of old documents and photographs, to assess what should be moved into the library at the Sanctuary. I eat some lunch, help Mario with more preparation, and take a little catnap. The next thing I know, it’s 7:00pm and time for Michael and I to get into our costumes.

Our “story” for the party is that we’re visitors from the Chicago congregation, which I guess is half-true. We’re supposed to sit in the back and observe the black mass without participating, and then keep a low profile at the party. Michael can mingle and chat with folks, doing what he can to assess their potential, but we’re not supposed to reveal his identity. I am giddy at the prospect of it all; it’s like a game. _A game that determines who lives or dies. _

With less than an hour to go, Michael and I are up in our bedroom, getting ready to be seen. He strips down to his underwear as I pull the costume pieces out of the bag Mario had given us. “I suppose you put on this tunic first,” I say, handing him the maroon-colored garment. Once he had that on, I grab the next piece. “And then this skirt-thing?”

“Balteus,” he corrects me, smiling as he takes it from my hand. He straps it around his waist, the leather straps hanging down in front. “It’s groin protection,” he says.

“Oh, well, yes. You need that, then,” I say, giggling. “Breastplate?” I ask next. Once he’s all suited up – sandals, cape, and everything – I take the helmet in my hands and look at him. “I think we’re going to need to put your hair up,” I say.

He shrugs and sits down on the bed, seemingly trusting me to tackle it. I set the helmet down and rummage through his suitcase until I find his hairbrush. I pick it up and am surprised by its weight. “Dang,” I say. “This thing is heavy.”

He looks at me, continuing his bemused smile. “Ebony,” he says.

I nod. “I assumed it was plastic. I should’ve known.”

He chuckles. “I’m not really a plastic kind of guy.”

I walk over to him. “You could say that again,” I add, still stuck on the realization that I had never touched his hairbrush before. I had never brushed his hair. I had never even seen him with his hair tied back before. Suddenly, my heart starts racing. He sitting there with a serene look on his face, just waiting for me to get started, but I’m finding that the prospect of handling his hair is filling me with anxiety. I let out a long, shaky breath.

“What?” he asks me.

I shake my head a little. “I don’t know, really. I’m terrified to brush your hair.”

He laughs, shaking his head back at me. “Why?” he asks.

I shrug a little. “I don’t know. I guess I am afraid I’ll… pull it? Hurt you? Damage it?”

“It’s not like I am Sampson,” he says. “It’s just hair.”

“No, it’s not. This is _Michael Langdon’s hair_ we’re talking about here.”

His face is still serene, but I can see irritation creeping in around his eyes. “I think you can handle it,” he says. I kneel on the bed behind him, gather his hair into my left hand and start brushing it with my right, my heart pounding. It is so much thicker than mine, but is also manages to be so much softer to the touch.

“See?” he continues. “You got this. Besides, you like it when I pull your hair. Maybe I wouldn’t mind too much.”

I check the clock and see that we’re running out of time; I still need to get dressed and do my hair and makeup. Part of me is dying to test his theory, to pull his head back by his hair – hard – and see what it makes him do. But we don’t have time to go there. _Something to remember for later,_ I tell myself.

A few minutes later, I’ve fashioned his hair into a man-bun on the back of his head. I step back to admire my work. Having the bulk of it swept back makes the wispy little curls around his face pop out, and the look is sweet, kinda sexy. “You know, I like it this way,” I say.

He stands up, crosses over to the mirror, takes one look and says, “No.” He grabs the helmet and yanks it on, quickly. In that moment, all the tremors I’d been feeling vanish, and I am able to laugh at him.

I throw up my hands. “All right, all right. Well, you’re ready. Wanna head downstairs and I’ll come down when I’m done?”

He’s still looking at himself in the mirror, fiddling with the visor and the crescent-shaped guards that descended down, obscuring his chin and cheeks. He turns to me. “Do you think I’m incognito enough?” he asks.

I shrug. “You could be covered head-to-toe and I’d still know it was you,” I say. “I’m the wrong one to ask.”

He smiles, and crosses over to me. He gives me a tight little peck on the cheek, the best he can do with the helmet on. “Fair enough,” he says. “See you downstairs.”


	18. The Costume Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck this pandemic. Sorry that it’s been SO LONG since I’ve posted a new chapter. It’s been dreadfully hard to find time to work on it. But the story is forever advancing in my mind! More to come!

When Michael closes the door behind him, I pause for a moment to just breathe. With as many months as we’ve spent together, I find he can still overwhelm me. I take a few breaths and shake my arms and shoulders out a little, feeling my heartbeat return to its usual pace. I place one hand on my heart, and the other on my belly, where I think I can maybe feel some squirming going on. “Sorry about that, love,” I say. “This is just what your daddy does to me.”

_Daddy._ Just saying that word makes me chuckle and shakes me out of my funk. I dig back into the costume bag and pull out pieces, amusing myself with mental pictures of Michael with a burp cloth on his shoulder, Michael pushing a stroller, Michael changing a diaper. I feel confident that he’s going to love this child and be a passionate parent, but, probably more of the hands-off kind. _But who knows, really?_

The slinky fabric on this goddess gown requires a totally different undergarment situation than I’ve currently got going on, so I have to switch everything up. By the time I am fully dressed, I am huffing and puffing a bit, and I need to sit down at the vanity and catch my breath before putting my makeup on. It takes forever, and it takes me even longer to wrangle my hair into something approximately on-theme. There are some golden vine-like things in the bag that I suspect are supposed to encircle my head like a crown of laurels, so I do a low loose bun-thing on the back of my head… but it takes some doing to get it to cooperate. By the time I’m finished, it is past 8:00, and I rush out the door, careful to lock it behind me.

As I descend the stairs, I am pretty impressed with the transformation that Mario has pulled off in the last hour. The lights are dimmed, and every room is encircled with lit candles on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. The bar and buffet are still being set up in the dining room; guests actually aren’t allowed in there until after the black mass. But I can see that the lush red damask tablecloths and sparkling silver serving dishes give the whole scene a much classier vibe than I’d been expecting. I spy Mario in the dining room, taking a break from barking orders at the uniformed staff to pull on his long purple jacket. I catch his eye and he winks at me; it’s only then that I see that his hair is gelled into a curly pompadour/mullet type style. “You’re Prince!” I exclaim.

“And you’re a goddess!” He responds. I step into the room and we spend a few moments oohing and ahhing over each other’s costumes.

He gestures toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

I point to my belly. “Club soda?” I ask.

He looks up at the ceiling, exasperated with himself. “Seriously, I keep forgetting you’re pregnant. When are you due, anyway?”

“A little less than three months.”

I can see him working the calendar math in his head. “So that means… you’re having this baby…”

“Underground, yes,” I finish for him. He stands there, looking stunned for a moment.

“Fuck,” he finally responds. “How are you feeling about that?”

I shrug. “I feel like my odds are as good as any first-time mom. We’ll have our own little hospital down there, and doctors, and while we’re on this trip, I’m supposed to find myself a doula.”

His eyes brighten. “I know someone! Oh, she’d be perfect for you.”

I place my hand on his arm and lower my voice a little. “This is the kind of stuff you need to tell Michael, when you two talk. You know people. He needs someone who knows people.”

Mario nods, taking in my advice.

“We’re leaving tomorrow. If he needed you to, would you be able to come with us?”

“Absolutely,” he answers.

“Good. Tell him that, too. Now tell me about this doula friend of yours.”

He takes my arm. “Let’s walk and talk.” He escorts me through all the rooms of the house, stopping here or there to straighten a candle, move a chair, or give one of the waitstaff some instruction. As we go, he describes his doula friend Lucy to me, and she really does sound perfect. She’s in Los Angeles, and it happens we’re heading there next.

We head back toward the chapel and I see Michael, who is standing next to Ms. Crowe, getting introduced to a few members. He’s shaking hands with a mild smile on his face, doing his best to appear… uninteresting. I have to laugh, because he’s not really pulling it off. Even with his face half-obscured, even when he’s pretty much keeping his mouth shut, his regal vibes are hard to miss. One of the young women he is meeting is visibly enchanted by him, batting her eyelashes and repeatedly laying her hands on his arm. I shake my head and chuckle.

“Mmm?” Mario asks.

I gesture over to Michael. “He’s not very good at blending in,” I say.

Mario whistles. “His costume turned out good,” he says.

I start to yank him in that direction. “Tell him yourself!” I say.

When we walk up to Michael, he takes my hand and Ms. Crowe introduces me to the other members. I get polite nods and then they walk away, the disappointment visible on the young woman’s face. While Mario takes this opportunity to fluff Michael up a little more, I scan the room and take in the sights. Most of the attendees have taken their seats in the chapel, and from the back of the room, I can see… a lot of black. A lot of vampires, witches, slutty nuns -- kind of what you’d expect to see. A small group of women near the front are dressed like Puritans, which makes me smile, and here and there people are dressed in silly costumes, like Spongebob or Santa Claus. All in all, I have to give the group credit for taking the costume idea seriously.

Mario excuses himself to go deal with the dining room prep, and Michael and I take our seats in the back. Ms. Crowe heads to the front of the room and takes a seat facing the group; a few moments later, Adam joins her. I crane my neck around, and whisper to Michael, “Where’s Ms. Mead?”

He gestures to the side of the room, at a figure in a hooded cloak and a Guy Fawkes mask. “That’s her,” he says, and I gawk a bit. “There are people here who might remember her, so she needs to stay totally incognito.”

I nod, then hear a chiming sound, like a high-pitched gong. The room falls silent as everyone turns to watch Anton walk in and meet his two cardinals at the front of the room. They turn and face the altar, and Anton speaks first. _“In nomine Magni Dei Nostri Satanas. Introibo ad altare Domini Inferi.”_

Adam and Ms. Crowe respond, _“Ad eum ui laefificat meum.”_ And I feel myself start to yawn. _Seriously, this shit is in Latin?_

It turns out the whole mass isn’t in Latin… but that doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t boring. Once we’re permitted to sit down, I hug Michael’s arm, lay my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes. I don’t really care if it seems rude; I can always play the pregnant card if I have to. But these group rituals have never really been my thing, and I feel like I need to rest up for a long night.

***

I am stirred awake by Michael shaking his shoulder a little, trying to rouse me gently. “Eve,” I hear him whisper, “Wake up.”

I blink a few times and look up at him. “I fell asleep?”

He gestures around the room, which is now emptying out as people move into the dining room. I sit up a little more.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say.

He shrugs. “It’s not like you missed much.” As Adam files out of the room, I see him shooting daggers at me with his eyes, but I can’t say I care. We get up and follow him out, as I wipe the sleep from my eyes.

I lean into Michael’s ear, “So they didn’t summon your father tonight?”

He laughs out loud, shaking his head. “I think he has better things to do.” I look at him, still puzzled by the dynamic at play, here. He respects these people and seems to think we’ll find worthy souls among them, yet he mocks their church at every turn. He sees my face and squeezes my hand. “He shows up for you, and me, and that’s pretty much it, my love. Everyone else is just talking to themselves.”

***

The party is kind of a crazy experience. We get introduced to people here and there, and they are generally warm and accepting. But the house seems to be filled with the vibe of anticipation, like everyone is waiting for something. And I keep getting this urge to cry out, “Here! He’s right here! The one you’re waiting for!” But I can’t do that, so… I just wander from room to room and try not to think about the fact that most of them will be dead soon.

I give Michael some space to have his innocuous-seeming conversations with the members while I people-watch, eat snacks, and chat with Mario or Ms. Crowe when they have a spare moment. Ms. Mead is nowhere to be found. This whole incognito strategy is knocking some of the anticipated fun out of our first congregation visit; I’d kinda expected that Michael and I would be met with honor and awe everywhere we went. Instead, we’re trying to disappear. I imagine there’s more reverence coming up, so I try to contain my disappointment. At least we look fabulous.

At one point, Mario comes up to me, jittery as hell. “It’s time,” he says.

“Time for what?”

“Michael said that when the live music starts, he wants the two of us to go out back and have our little chat.”

“Ooh!” I squeal. “That’s exciting! OK, remember what I said… you’ve got skills, you’ve got institutional memory, you know the right people, you’re devout… and try not to fawn over him *too* much.”

He nods, over and over. “Ok. Got it.”

I grab his hand and squeeze it. “You got this.” A voice on a PA starts calling folks back into the chapel, which has been reconfigured into something that looks like a live music venue. I give Mario’s hand one last squeeze and follow the party guests into the chapel. Right before I go through the entrance, I look over my shoulder and see Michael approaching Mario. I hope this goes well.

***

The band’s performance is pretty fun to watch. Their singer is this totally sexy chick in fetish gear, and while she’s on stage, she keeps doing this thing where she uses her microphone cord like a whip. It’s pretty enchanting and does a decent job of distracting me while Michael is outside interviewing Mario.

This is what we’re on this trip to do. For him to identify candidates and pummel them with questions to discern if they’re worthy to join us at the Sanctuary. I wish I could be a fly on the wall, watching how it’s all going down… but I know it’s not my place. When it’s over, I know I’ll have a ton of questions for Mario about how it went.

I watch the show from the side of the room, leaning against the wall and sipping on my soda like a pregnant lady should. It lasts a little over an hour, and when it’s done, the singer jumps off the stage and runs through the crowd to throw her arms around a man in the back of the room. The two of them start making out like fiends, and a cheer erupts from the crowd. The PA starts playing recorded music, some kind of brooding electronica that I don’t recognize, but I don’t hate. No one *says* anything… but there is a shift in the energy in the air.

The crowd filters itself into groups. Some head toward the house’s door; their night is over. Some return to the dining room where the bar and food are still set up. And then there are those who remain in the chapel; maybe a dozen people. They follow the singer’s cue and start reaching for each other. Pairs start kissing, clusters of people start groping each other. Costume pieces start falling to the floor. I continue to lean against the wall, hoping I can get away with just watching this unfold, but then I see folks making eye contact with me. A man breaks away from his cluster and starts walking toward me; I panic and run from the room.

In the dining room are another dozen or so people; Anton and his cardinals are there, and I spy Mario and Michael, having returned from their one-on-one time. I make a beeline for them and take Michael’s arm.

“Some sexy shit going down in there,” I say, gesturing with my thumb at the chapel.

Mario’s ears prick up. “Already?” He says, and bolts away from us without saying goodbye.

Michael starts laughing and I look at him, puzzled. “He told me that he’d want to be where the action is tonight, so to speak. Since he’ll be leaving here the day after tomorrow.”

My jaw drops. “Really? He’s coming with us?” I throw my arms around Michael’s neck. He laughs some more.

“You were right; he’s exactly the administrator we need.”

I am giddy with excitement — excited for Mario, and excited that Michael had agreed with me. And then I gasp to realize how much Mario has to do in the next 24 hours. “Wow, this is huge,” I say. “I want to congratulate him. But… I guess he’s busy.” I look over my shoulder into the room I’d come from.

Michael starts to pull me toward the bar. “Come with me,” he says. “I need a drink.”

As we wait for his drink, we’re approached by Anton, who asks Michael how things are going — Michael offers very few details. “Good, good,” he says. “A few contenders, yes.” After a while, Ms. Crowe join us, and they have a very similar exchange.

When they both have moved on, I lean in and lower my voice. “So… when are they going to find out?” I ask.

“My thinking is that they’ll find out when Mario gets on the plane.”

I chuckle at that. “And are there really other contenders?”

He shrugs a bit. “Honestly? I haven’t met any yet.” There is so much more I want to know, about his chat with Mario, and anyone else he’d talked to that evening, and how he envisions the rest of our trip playing out, since Mario and Anton supposedly hate each other… but it’s getting late, and my head is still swimming from the scene I’d witnessed unfolding earlier in the chapel.

“So what do you know about what’s going on in the chapel right now?” I finally ask.

He gives me a knowing smirk. “Apparently it’s the same thing that goes on every time this congregation has an event here.”

My eyes widen. “Wow, Mario wasn’t kidding about the whole ‘free love’ spirit. Chicago was not like this.”

He shakes his head. “L.A. wasn’t either.”

It’s my turn to smirk back at him. “Wanna go take a peek?” I ask.

He sets down his empty glass and offers me his arm. “Let’s go,” he says.

Giggling like children, we tiptoe back toward the chapel and peek our heads into the entrance, expecting to get an eyeful of debauchery. Instead, we find the room totally empty, except for one guy on the stage, winding power cables around his arm.

I furrow my brow. “What the fuck?” I ask.

Michael is chuckling. “I think they meet up here and then break off into groups. Maybe some are in the basement? Maybe some left?” He shrugs.

I make a disappointed face. “Damn, I was looking forward to some quality voyeurism,” I say.

Michael claps his hands together. “Let’s call it a night, then. Shall we?” I nod. “Why don’t you head on up while I say goodnight to everyone?” I do as instructed and start to head upstairs.

***

There are three rooms on the second floor, and ours is at the end of the hallway. As I reach the top of the stairs, I can see that Tony is already positioned on his stool outside our door, ready to keep watch once we’re inside. I start toward him and pass the closed door of the first bedroom. The second bedroom door is open, I notice, and as I approach I can see that there are dim lights on inside. As my eyes adjust to the scene in the room, I gasp, and stop in my tracks. I didn’t necessarily mean to stare, but I find I cannot help myself.

The scene kind of unfolds step-by-step. There is a bed in the room pushed up against the wall I am next to, and a woman is lying on her back on the bed. I can’t see her face, but she is naked from the waist down and her legs are spread wide open. There is a naked man positioned between her legs, with his face down and his ass in the air, making her body writhe like crazy as he goes down on her. For a moment, I think these two figures are the only ones in the room, but then I see a third man emerge from behind the second. He’s appears to be full-clothed and he’s kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, placing him at just the right height to give the second man an enthusiastic rim job.

Downstairs, my plan had been to poke my head into the chapel door stealthily and catch a furtive glimpse of the action; here it is on full display in front of me. And as I continue to stare at the trio, I start to be able to discern _who_ I am looking at — the woman is the one who was signing with the band. The clothed man is the one she’d kissed when her set ended. And the one in the middle is Mario. He’d said he wanted to be where the action is tonight. _And now he’s right in the middle of it._

I don’t know how long I stand there watching them. Five seconds? Five minutes? I’m transfixed to my spot and they don’t seem to notice my presence — until Michael approaches. He reaches the top of the stairs and starts toward me, yanking his helmet off with a sigh of relief. He sidles up next to me and follows my gaze to see what I’m looking at, and after a second or two, he says, “Holy shit,” aloud.

Mario bolts upright, sending the man behind him careening backward until he lands on his ass on the floor. I know I shouldn’t, but I let out a tiny giggle at that. I am a little taken aback at the sight of Mario’s naked body; he’s a big guy with large muscles and a lot of body hair, and a gigantic erection that is pointing right at us. But he seems to take no notice of me; his eyes are locked with Michael’s. “My lord,” he says, his eyes pleading.

I manage to take my focus off of Mario and glance at Michael. His face reveals nothing, still serene as ever. He holds Mario’s gaze for an intensely long time before he lowers his eyes in something like a demure nod, and says, “Enjoy your evening,” to the group, before grabbing the doorknob and closing the bedroom door. He looks at me with wide eyes and lets out a huge exhale. I mouth “Oh my god,” at him, and he nods, a smile starting to crack across his face. He grabs my arm and we run to our bedroom, waving wordlessly at Tony on our way in.


	19. The Bedroom

With the eyes of the other Satanists on us, Michael had done an outstanding job of keeping his cool. Like he always does. But once our bedroom door closes, his facade totally melts and I can see how much that bedroom scene had riled him up.

He dashes into the room ahead of me, slams the hemet down on the vanity, then whips around and looks at me, his eyes wild. “Holy shit,” he says, again.

I laugh. “Isn’t that what you expected ‘free love’ to look like?”

He considers that. “I guess so. But it’s another thing to actually see it.”

“What did you think?” I ask him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. “I… I don’t know.” he says.

I don’t want to laugh at him, but I can’t help it. “Hell is no big thing, killing is no big thing, watching me fuck other women… no big thing. But a little guy-on-guy is too much for you?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not it. I’ve seen a lot more than that at Cooperative dinner parties.”

“So what is it?”

He’s quiet, searching. I give him a little time and watch his face as he works through his emotions. Eventually, he answers me. “I told you about how I am used to being the object of people’s desire. And that’s true; I feel it coming from pretty much all directions, all the time. What’s new for me is the feeling of…”

He trails off, so I finish his sentence for him, “Desiring someone back?”

He responds with the slightest little nod, and I break into a huge grin. I race toward him and take his hands. “I knew you would!” I exclaim.

“You did?”

“I did,” I say, feeling a river of words ready to spill out of my mouth. I take a deep breath. “Anything you desire, you shall have. I’m here—we’re all here—to serve you. And you so graciously sought to fulfill my needs when you found Sacha for me, and from the moment I saw Mario, I wanted to return the favor. For you.” I take another deep breath. “And I have to be honest; the thought of you touching another woman… it tears at my heart in a way I can’t explain. But the thought of you with Mario? I think it’s adorable. I love the idea and I want it for you.”

He’s nodding, taking all this in as I spill my guts, putting words to thoughts that I didn’t even realize I had. “OK,” he finally responds.

“OK?” I repeat.

He nods. “Please don’t say a word to Mario about this. I want to make these moves in my own time, in my own way.”

“Of course, my love.”

He’s still holding my hands and he pulls one up and kisses it. “I’m so grateful for you, for this life we’re building.”

I nod. “It’s just going to keep getting better,” I say. He pulls me close and we hug, somewhat awkwardly with his breastplate smashing against me. I laugh. “We need to get out of these costumes,” I say.

“Agreed,” he responds. He reaches around to his side and unbuckles the breastplate straps. I help him lift it over his head, and see that he’s sweat right through the tunic he had on underneath.

“Hot in there?” I ask. His answer is to groan with relief as he strips off the tunic. He takes a step back to sit on the bed, and he starts to work on his boots, but I drop to my knees and take over. I unlace the boots and yank them off, eliciting more happy groaning sounds from him.

I stand up so that I am looking down at him. I reach down and run my fingers along his hairline, stroking the wispy curls that frame his face, which are now sweaty and wild-looking from an evening trapped inside his helmet. I smile down at him, “I have to say it again, I do like your hair like this.” He groans up at me yet again, this time with exasperation instead of pleasure. “OK, OK,” I laugh, and hop up on the bed behind him. I prop myself up on my knees and set about untangling the cord from his tied-up hair. It’s gotten ensnarled and sweaty, and it’s taking me a little time to get it out.

He scoots backwards so that he’s wedged between my legs, and places his hands on my knees, making a little, “Mmm,” sound. My thighs, belly, and breasts are in contact with his skin now, and I wish there was an easy way to rip this gown off. But he’s sitting on it. So I stay the course and keep working on his hair.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” I say. “The knot in the cord has gotten tangled and I’m trying not to hurt you,” I say.

He laughs a gentle laugh. “I don’t think you could hurt me if you tried.” At that moment, the knot finally falls loose and his hair spills out of its man-bun. I can feel the heat radiating off of his waves, and he lets out another sigh of relief. I rake my fingers through it a few times, from crown to tip, shaking in some air. And then I decide to go for bold. I sweep it all into a ponytail in my right hand, grip it tightly, and yank it backward in one firm move.

Michael gasps and looks up at me, meeting my upside-down eyes. “I’m sorry, did that hurt?” I ask innocently. I see him trying to twist around so I drop his hair and let him move freely; a second later he’s spun around and is facing me, on his knees as well.

He brings his face close to mine, his breath heavy, his eyes playful. “Not at all,” he says.

I reach around to the back of his neck and plunge both hands up into his hair. I close my fists tightly and can feel the damp strands being pulled taut against his scalp. “Now?” I ask.

He gasps again and throws his head back. The sight of him like this — his mouth wide open, his chiseled jawline angled toward the sky, his neck elongated, his eyes wide — it’s intoxicating. I don’t exactly know where I am going with this, but it’s clearly working for me.

And I get the sense it’s working for him. “Harder,” he whispers, closing his eyes. I open my fingers up so that I can grab larger handfuls of hair, then slam them closed with a forceful yank downward. He cries out a little, “Angh!” sound, and I come completely undone.

I rise up as high as I can on my knees so that I am looking down at him, and I just gaze at his face for a while, taking in the astonished look on his face, my breath heaving. When he eventually opens his eyes, I steady my breath, deciding on that tactic to try next. “So what have we learned about Michael’s kinks today?” I ask.

I see him struggling not to smile. “That I can pull off a Roman Gladiator look when I need to?”

I scowl down at him and mutter, “Don’t be cute. Tell me the truth, perv.” I pull his hair just a little bit harder.

His eyes roll back into his head, and he gives me another groan. He starts smiling to himself, seeming to want to drag this moment out. “Cute,” he says, sliding his hands up my arms and wrapping them tightly around my wrists. “You know what’s cute?” And then he makes this intensely quick (and maybe somewhat magical) move where he maneuvers my hands out of his hair, turns me sideways, slams me down on my back, and presses me into the bed with his firm hold on my wrists.

He lowers his face and says, in his most devious tone, “That you think you have *any* control over me.” His breath is hot and his voice is so sexy it’s just destroying me. I crane my neck forward, desperate to kiss him, but the way he has got my arms and shoulders pinned, I can’t reach him. He laughs in my face. “It’s fun to let you think you do, every once in a while.”

“I know, my lord,” I sputter. “You’re right. I… I’m sorry.”

He drops my wrists and sits back up on his knees. “And why do you still have all this on?” he asks, tugging at my gown. I sit up and start trying to loosen the belt and shimmy the gown over my head, but he gets impatient and grabs it, yanking hard at the fabric that is caught under my shoulders, until I hear it rip.

“Fuck this,” he says, his voice angry and urgent. He keeps pulling, the ripping sound continues, and the next moment, I’m in my underwear and the tattered costume is on the floor. He looks down at me, panting, angry, his eyes like they're on fire. He still has his underwear on, his usual tiny black shorts, and he hurriedly pulls those off as well. I don’t know where this frustrated energy is coming from _(oh wait yes I do)_ but it’s making me tremble with anticipation.

He grabs the waistband of my underwear and rips those off quickly as well. “On your hands and knees,” he barks at me. I do as I’m told and flip over quickly, feeling his hands grab my ass roughly as I get into position. He then slides one of his hands up my spine, dragging my skin along. When he reaches my neck, he wraps his fingers around the loose bun still positioned near the bottom of my hairline. And then his other hand slides in between my thighs then travels upward, parting my labia and exploring how wet I’ve become. I gasp and try to drop my head down, but realize I can’t; his hold on my hair is too tight.

He closes his fingers a little tighter around my hair, until it’s just starting to hurt, and an “Ah,” sound escapes me.

“Remember our safe word?” he asks.

Sapphire. “Yes, my lord,” I say.

“I won’t let go unless you use it,” he says.

“Yes, my lord.”

And with that, his fingers start to encircle my vagina; I can feel him getting his cock positioned properly. He waits for an exquisite moment before he plunges inside of me, and I cry out from the relief it brings. The last few hours have been like one long drawn-out round of foreplay and the aching in my body had been growing and growing. I feel the urge to arch my back, to drop my shoulders down, but realize, again, that I can’t. His grip on my hair has me locked into place, and I have to hold myself perfectly still.

At first, this isn’t too tricky, as he’s just getting started and his movements are pretty tame. But the harder he starts thrusting, the more effort I have to expend bracing myself for impact, keeping my shoulders still. Whenever I try to relax, I get thrown forward and feel my hair getting yanked backward, so I have to lock my frame again. There’s this crazy tension between wanting to let myself go and having to stay perfectly still _or else_ \-- and it’s electrifying. I am not sure if Michael knew that this would happen or if he’s just experimenting, but he’s managed to create yet another new dynamic for us. And it is working for me.

I can hear him gulping for air, feel his free hand position itself on my lower back, giving him even more leverage. My own panting is starting to sound like shrieking, and I can feel my arms start to tremble as my muscles reach their breaking point. I don’t want this to end, but I don’t know how much more I can take.

At that moment, he lets go of my hair so he can grab my hips with both hands, and I am grateful to be able to drop my head and arch my back into him. He’s making his high-pitched moans, and I know he’ll be finished soon; now that I can move again, I think I can actually join him. I delight in the feeling of his last few deep thrusts, his full-throated cries, and feel magnanimous when the two of us reach our peaks together. _Way to nail the landing._

He collapses onto the bed next to me, and I remain propped up on my elbows, so I can look down at him. He holds his hand up front of his face and starts grabbing at the stray hairs that are stuck to it. “Sorry,” he says. “I think I might’ve pulled too hard.”

“Nonsense,” I say. I drop my face down and give him a deep kiss, relishing his touch as he wraps his arms around me at last. We maneuver ourselves into a comfortable position, me on my side with my head on his shoulder, and he lets out an enormous yawn. He’s exhausted and fading fast.

Just when I think he’s drifted off to sleep, he raises his head one last time. “For the record,” he says, “when you pulled my hair? I loved it. You need to do that some more.”

I shake my head at him. “You’re incorrigible,” I say. He gives me the softest little kiss and drops his head back down.

“Yes, I am,” he says.


	20. The Morning

My second morning waking up in the Black House is the opposite of the first; Michael is the one who is up and about long before me. When I awake, I am met with a bedside note: “Ms. Mead and I have a lot to discuss, so I’m taking her to breakfast. Back by noon. —M.” I stare at the paper for a while, tracing the small, precise lettering. _Have I ever seen his handwriting before?_

I check the clock; it’s 9:30. Which means it’s 12:30 for Sasha; I shoot her a quick text, and am excited when she texts back right away. We agree to meet up on FaceTime in 15 minutes. 

I say good morning to Randall, visit the restroom, then sneak downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee. The whole time I am down there, I’m worried someone will walk in and want to talk to me… about last night, about Mario, about where Michael went. But I get lucky and escape back to my room unseen.

“Good morning!” Sasha exclaims when she sees me on screen. “Are you reporting live from the Black House?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am. You know, the significance of this place is totally lost on me.”

She shrugs. “You’re above the rest of us. I get it,” she says, snickering.

I laugh, realizing how much her smile makes me melt. “Fuck, I really miss you,” I say.

“Aw, I miss you, too. I feel like I need more time to get ready to go with you… but I’m also so eager for you guys to get here,” she says, shrugging. 

I start to tell her about last night, pausing to ask, “Tell me one thing… do CoS events in New York ever devolve into orgies?”

She laughs. “I wish.”

“Well here, they apparently do. They have since the 1960’s.”

“Nice,” she nods. “So who should I be jealous of?” I tell her… everything. About Mario, about the scene in the bedroom down the hall, even about the hair-pulling. I’ve got all morning to kill and I am dying to get another perspective on it all. 

“Wow,” she says. “It’s like Michael is building some kinda Satanic Queer Cool Kids’ Club.” 

I laugh at that. “Right? He has something like 15 slots to fill. You got the first, Mario got the second... who's next?”

“It better be a drag queen.” 

We end up chatting for two hours, with me taking occasional breaks to sneak in the kitchen for more coffee or breakfast. It’s clear that we both are going through some craziness right now and just need to unload it all to a sympathetic ear. She’s dealing with packing up her life to head to the Compound — something to which I can 100% relate. 

“So what did you tell your clients?” I ask.

She laughs. “I told Tad I was going into rehab and made *him* inform all my clients.” 

“Nice!” 

“Yeah, there were a few who I called up to say a proper goodbye, but the rest of them, I am OK to leave hanging.”

“And what about your family? Friends?”

She shrugs. “I’m keeping it simple. Telling everyone that I’m gonna go visit a friend who lives in the mountains for a while and we’ll be kinda off the grid. They’re all buying it. It seems like the kind of thing I’d do.”

“And what are you going to do with your last few days?”

“Enjoy New York. Visit museums, eat good food, see some burlesque. I had my last appointment…” she trails off.

“For what?” I ask.

“I was gonna wait until you got here… oh fuck it. I thought this might be my last chance to get a tattoo. So I went and got one.”

“Ooh can I see?”

“Hold on,” she says, blushing. She takes her t-shirt off over her head, and turns sideways as she unhooks and drops her bra. She keeps her arms folded across her breasts as she turns back to face me. “Ready?” she asks.

“Um, YES.”

She uncovers the top of her left breast, revealing the new design, occupying one of the last stretches of bare skin remaining along her bra line. It’s an illustration of a woman’s hand, elegantly drawn with sexy red fingernails, holding an apple that’s had a bite taken out of it. Entwined around the hand is a snake, whose angled head seems to be beckoning the viewer to take another bite. He wears a little crown on his snake-head. 

“Oh wow, it’s Eve and the serpent,” I say. “It’s beautiful!”

“It’s you. And Michael,” she says shyly, her eyes lowered. 

I smile at her. “I love it.”

“Do you? The Eve parallel isn’t too on-the-nose?”

I laugh. “I’ve thought about that. Sometimes I wonder if my mom maybe had some premonitions when she gave me that name. Anyway, no, I absolutely love it. I’m so glad you found time to make it happen.”

“My tattoo guy owes me. I’m pretty sure I’ve put his kid through private school.” 

I laugh at that and spend a moment admiring all the artwork on her shoulders and bustline. “They look so gorgeous, all together. And your tits look pretty fabulous right now, too, I gotta say.”

She blushes even more, but says nothing. 

“Show me,” I say, surprising myself. 

Her eyes go wide. “Right now?” She asks.

I shrug. “If you want! No pressure. I’m just… alone, for a change. And I miss your body.” And talking to her about orgies and hair-pulling had… stirred me, a bit. 

She takes a deep breath, looks me in the eyes, and lowers her arms, freeing both of her breasts at last. I let out a long sigh. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I just want to touch you,” I say, reaching out toward my iPad, grabbing at the air. 

She lifts her chin a little, a small-but bold smile spreading on her face. “I could touch myself, if you like,” she says. 

I answer her, immediately. “Yes please. I really want to see your hands all over those.” 

She gives me a cute little laugh as she begins to show herself some love. She starts by grabbing her tits roughly and pushing them both upwards, letting her head roll back and opening her mouth wide to catch her breath. I gasp; watching her is even hotter than I’d hoped. She continues like this for a bit, pushing them up, then together, letting them drop. My chest has always been pretty average-sized, but she is busty as fuck and watching her work her assets is mesmerizing. 

She keeps a firm hold on her right breast with one full hand and uses her fingertips to stroke the nipple on her left. After teasing it gently for a few moments she pinches hard and lets out a gasp. And then she repeats the process on the right side. 

She looks up at me, heavy-lidded and gasping for air. “Do you want me to come for you?” she asks, breathlessly.

I cannot believe my luck. “Yes, please,” I answer, barely louder than a whisper. She keeps one hand pinching away at her right nipple while her other hand slides down her belly… and out of frame. I can’t see what’s happening below her navel, but I’m ok with that. Her face, her tits, her groans and gasps are all the entertainment I need. I feel eagerness stirring in my own body, wetness raging between my own legs. _Will I go next?_ I wonder. For now, I’ll just watch. 

I figure I’ll help her along by telling her my plans. “We’ll be arriving in New York in a week and a half. When we check into our hotel, I want you there already. I want to open the door to our room and have you be the first thing I see.”

“Will you be alone?” she asks.

“I don’t care. It may just be me and Michael or we may have a full entourage… either way I am going to pounce on you. We’re going to mess up those fancy hotel sheets.” 

“Yes, we are,” she says, her voice breathy and quick. Her eyes are closed tight and she begins to spit out little phrases, in a rhythm. “Anything you need. Anything you desire. You’re my savior. I live to serve you,” and with that last one, her voice cracks, her mouth opens wide, and she lets out a long, high-pitched moan, gasping out her climax in deep, gulping breaths. Her face stays frozen for a few seconds while she pants her way back from the edge. And eventually her chin lowers and her eyes land on me again. 

“That didn’t take long,” I said.

She laughs, and lets out a long sigh. “No, it did not.”

We share a quiet moment, just gazing at each other while she continues to catch her breath. And then I say, “It’s so funny. Those things you were saying? About how I’m your savior and you serve me? That’s the same kinda stuff I always say to Michael.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” a man’s voice chimes in behind me. 

“God damnit!!” I scream, as I whip around, startled out of my skin. Michael is standing on the other side of the bed, looking very pleased with himself in his traveling coat, hands clasped behind his back. “You scared. The shit. Out of me,” I bark at him.

He just keeps smirking down at me, unfazed. “I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy,” he says. Then he steps closer to the head of the bed and bends down to enter Sasha’s frame. “Good afternoon, Ms. Valentino,” he says, his voice dripping with charm and mocking us with its formality. 

I turn to see that Sasha, red-faced and flustered as all hell, has covered herself up with a robe. She musters a little wave at him, but doesn’t speak. 

“Hows the weather on the east coast?” he asks.

“Fine, sir,” she responds, her voice shaking. 

For a moment, the room is so silent you could hear a pin drop, as we stare at Michael, waiting to see what he’ll do next. He holds that tension, seeming to savor it. And then he throws his head back laughing and starts unbuttoning his jacket. He tosses it onto a nearby chair, and flops down on the bed next to me. 

He leans in and kisses me on my forehead. “How was your morning?” he asks.

“Fine…” I say, still feeling a little hesitant about this situation.

He shakes his head a bit, still chuckling at me. “Don’t be silly. You’re fine.” He cranes his neck up so he can see Sasha over my shoulder. “Everything’s fine, Sasha,” he calls at her. 

I’m still looking at him, bewildered. “OK…” is all I can say.

His expression is still bemused. “You forget that Sasha was a gift from me to you. Do you know how happy it makes me to see you enjoying your present?”

That finally makes a smile break across my face. “How long were you there?”

“I believe I snuck in around, ‘I wanna see your hands all over those,’” he responds, and my face goes beet-red. Now it’s Sasha’s turn to laugh. He looks up at her. “You’re right, though,” he says. 

“About what?” I ask.

He looks back at me. “You are her savior. She does live to serve you — quite literally.” 

I nod, considering that. 

“However, I am afraid it’s time to hang up. I need you to get dressed. We have to get to the airport!” 

I glance at the clock and see that it’s noon already; I’d wasted the morning away in this bed, and I am still in my nightgown. “Shit!” I exclaim.

I say a hasty goodbye to Sasha, who is still laughing when I hang up the call. 

***

I sprint down the hall to the restroom to take a very quick shower, and when I return to our room, Michael is calmly sitting on the bed, his legs crossed before him, a packed suitcase at his side. 

“So how did this morning go?” I ask him, digging through my trunk to find appropriate traveling clothes. 

“It went well,” he responds brightly. “Surprisingly well. I’ve had my concerns about how Ms. Mead would respond to the transition, but… she is loyal to me, above anything else. She’s going to spend the rest of this trip bringing Mario up to speed.” 

I pause and think about that. “Wow, that’s a crash course,” I say.

“Tell me about it,” he says. “We’re also going to visit Outpost Three once we get to Los Angeles, which is where she’ll ultimately be stationed. I think it’ll be helpful for her to see it, to envision her life there. And I tell you… the ambiance in that place is right up her alley.”

I nod, not really knowing what that means. I know very little about the outposts, since Michael has kept me out of that loop, and I am intrigued at the notion of actually seeing one.

30 minutes later, we are on the front porch, watching the security guards load our luggage into two black SUV’s. We had arrived in San Francisco as a group of five, but with the addition of Anton, Ms. Crowe, and Mario, we’re becoming quite the entourage. Just then, a compact car with an Uber sticker in the window rolls up, and Mario hops out. He yanks a suitcase out of the back seat and starts toward us, a big, bright smile on his face. 

He runs up to me and kisses me on the cheek. “This jacket is fabulous,” he says, stroking the velvet portrait collar on my long burgundy jacquard duster. 

I can’t help but laugh at him. He looks fresh-faced and exuberant. _But he was here, having a threesome down the hall from us, not 12 hours ago._ “Did you sleep at all?” I asked.

“Not one bit,” he replies. He circles the group and administers handshakes and hugs to all — except Anton. The two of them exchange curt nods. He starts back toward me, shrugging his shoulders.

“We’re ready, sirs,” Rodney calls from the street. 

Michael extends his elbow to me. “On to the next, then!” he says, as we head up the walkway.


	21. The Entourage

We split the group between the two cars and I end up riding with Michael and Mario. As soon as the door slides closed, I whip around to face Mario, who is sitting in the back row.

“How are you doing?” I ask him.

He pauses a bit, and then spits out, “I have no fucking idea.” 

I nod. “Sounds about right. Did you get a chance to… say goodbye to anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not really interested in saying goodbye to anyone. I mean, how would those conversations even go?” 

I nod some more. “Yeah. Ghosting is the way to go here, I think. Better to not put yourself in a situation where you’d have to answer questions.”

“Plus I’m pretty sure I’m still rolling from last night. I’m not really in any shape to hatch a workable plan.”

I laugh at that. “How about pack a workable wardrobe?” 

“Girl,” he responds. “There is some nonsense in that suitcase. I don’t know if I brought a single pair of socks. I just… grabbed and ran.”

Michael chimes in on that point. “Sasha still has my credit card. Have her go shopping for you.” 

“Ooh,” I say. “That’s a good idea.”

Mario looks back and forth between us. “Who is Sasha?” he asks.

Michael explains, “You are the second person who I’ve hand-selected to join us at the Sanctuary. Sasha is the first. And she’s a personal stylist.”

“And she’s my girlfriend,” I add.

With that, Mario’s eyebrows pop up. “Ah, I see,” he says. “Well, yeah then. That’d be great!” 

I whip out my iPad and start sending Sasha messages about this. She sends me the link to her client intake form and Mario and I spend the rest of the ride filling it out, with his sizes and style preferences and the like. It’s a fun little project and a welcome distraction from the “I saw you getting your ass eaten last night” elephant in the room. At some point, when Michael wasn’t around, he and I would be discussing  _ that. _

If I felt there were a lot of eyes on us the first time we strolled through the airport, this time it feels like *all* eyes are on us. All we need to do is walk through this tiny private terminal and out into the tarmac, where Michael’s plane awaits. We form our little entourage; Ms. Mead and Ms. Crowe go first, then Mario, then Michael with me on his arm, and Anton is behind us. The guards pushing two luggage carts bring up the rear. Anton, who has a decent chance of actually being recognized, keeps his fedora and sunglasses on, which just makes us look more conspicuous.

I keep my eyes forward this time, not letting myself get distracted by the folks stopping in their tracks or dropping their jaws. Five minutes later, we’ve run our gauntlet and are stepping on board Michael’s jet.

It’s fun to watch Mario gawk once he gets inside, much as I did the first time I was on board. He sprawls out on one of the couches, ready to try to get some shut-eye. The flight is only 90 minutes, but that’s a decent nap for someone who needs it as badly as he does today.

I sit next to Michael, and proceed, much like I did on our last flight, to bombard him with questions. We’re returning to his home, in a way, and I’m still sorting out exactly what that means. 

“So. How many people in the L.A. congregation know who you are?” I ask. 

“There is Hannah, the high priestess, Madeline, the first Cooperative member I met, and I am told there are seven remaining congregates who were there when I was there.”

“Only seven?”

”Yeah,” he says. “They had about 25 members when I was there, and a lot of them left after I did. They wanted to see proof that I was who I say I am, and they weren’t convinced. They started to think the whole church was a scam.”

I nod. “We had a lot of turnover back in Chicago, even under the best of circumstances. People get interested in the Church and then bail pretty quickly when some other shiny object came along.” 

He smiles at that. “It’s true. So, the plan is, tonight, you and I are going to Madeline’s house for dinner. Tomorrow, we’ll visit the Outpost during the day, and tomorrow night, we’ll gather at the church with the congregates.”

“Do you think there are good candidates among them?” I ask.

“Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t remember any of those people. I was so out of my mind during the time I was there. But they’ve stuck around and kept their faith in me, so… maybe.” 

“Mario also said something about a doula he knows there. I think he said she was with the Church?” I look over my shoulder and see Mario, totally passed out on the couch behind us. I smile. “I’ll ask him when he wakes up.” 

I lay my head on Michael’s shoulder, he wraps his right arm around me, and places his left hand on my belly. We sit like that, quiet in our serene little family huddle, until it’s time to land.

***

Ms. Mead had rented us a house in Los Angeles, just a few blocks from the Church. The ride there from the airport was uneventful, and by the time we’d gotten settled in, it was time for Michael and I to head over to Madeline’s. 

It was a mild spring evening and we weren’t far away, so we decided to walk there — with one of our guards trailing us, of course. Tony would be outside Madeline’s house the whole time we were there, watching the perimeter. 

We hit the sidewalk, I take Michael’s arm, and we stroll in silence for a while, enjoying the breeze and the white noise of the city. “Did you like living here?” I ask him.

He takes his time before he answers. “I've got a few good memories. From my childhood, when my grandmother was still alive. From my time with Ms. Mead, before I went to live with the warlocks. But otherwise, no. I’m not a fan of this place. And around the time I met Madeline, I was at a real low point.”

I squeeze his arm. “I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you.” 

He squeezes back. “I was not put on this earth to have a fun or easy life. I have a mission to fulfill, and as long as I can pull it off, I’ll die a happy man.” 

“Sure,” I say. “But you are loved by so many. You deserve better.” 

“Don’t you worry about me,” he says, smiling. “The low points of my past only serve to highlight the joy I know today. And see in our future.” He gestures to a house on our left. “We’re here,” he says. 

We head up the walk and Michael knocks on the door. The woman who answers looks… nothing like any Cooperative member I’ve met before. Usually they’re wealthy and stylish and carry themselves with an air of snobbery or outlandishness. She is just… a normal-looking older white lady. 

She and Michael share a big hug, and he introduces me. We shake hands and she escorts us inside. She’s set out tea on her living room coffee table and we collapse into her comfy overstuffed couch. 

She turns to Michael. “You look  _ so good.  _ Ascending the throne agrees with you,” she says. 

He chuckles. “I’ve finally figured out where I belong. And I have you to thank for that.”

She waves her hand in front of her face. “Nah, you’d have gotten there eventually.”

“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you!” Michael says. “I was disappointed you didn’t join us at the Compound.”

She shrugs. “I would just be in the way! You all don’t need me there. I have no money or power to bring to the table.”

Michael nods. “Well, I would’ve loved to have you there.” 

“That’s so interesting,” I say aloud, almost without realizing it. They both look at me. “It just… sounds so familiar to me. Most Cooperative members take this path where they make the deal, then, *poof* — they get wealth, power, fame, right? Whatever they asked for.”

They both nod, both looking like they have no idea where I am going with this.

“When I arrived at the compound, I was super-confused about why Satan had made a deal with me, but didn’t turn me into one of… them. The Illuminati. But eventually, it became clear that he had a plan for me. I had a role to play in Michael’s, erm, ascension.”

Now, Michael starts nodding, catching my drift. “And so did Madeline.”

“Yeah.” I turn to Madeline and continue. “I’m just saying… I think that’s why Michael’s father made the deal with you in the first place. So you could be here for Michael when he needed you. Like me.” I explain. 

She shrugs. “I don’t need to know The Father’s reasoning. I’m just grateful to be in his service.”

Michael and I exchange little smiles. Madeline may not care, but I love seeing more pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

We eventually move to the dinner table, where Madeline serves us roast chicken and potatoes and the two of them regale me with tales of the day they met. The meal Michael ate at this very table. The Church members who later gawked in his presence.

“I’m looking forward to watching them do it again tomorrow,” Madeline laughs.

“Yeah, if not at me, then at Anton.”

“Ooh, I didn’t know he was coming,” Madeline says. “Who else will be there?”

“Anton’s two cardinals and my new administrative assistant.” Michael answers.

She nods. “And is one of those cardinals… your friend?”

Michael brightens. “Yes! Ms. Mead! You’ll finally get to meet her!”

“I can’t wait,” she says. “How’d they do with her?”

“Absolutely flawless. They far exceeded my expectations,” Michael answers.

“How did who do? With what?” I ask.

They both shake their heads and blow off the question. “Ah, it’s nothing.” 

***

It’s not even 9:00 when we start walking back to the house, and I’m thankful for an early night with very little drama. Between last night’s party and the antics afterward, this morning’s call with Sasha, and an afternoon flight, I am wiped out and ready to be in bed by 10:00.

“When do we head to the Outpost tomorrow?” I ask.

“The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be done with it,” he says, gruffly.

“You’re not curious to see it?” 

“Not that place,” he says. “I’ve seen it.”

“Oh,” I say, not wanting to pry. There is so much I don’t know about his life before the Compound, and I find that he tends to share the details in his own time. 

He takes a deep breath in and out, then starts to explain. “The Compound, the Sanctuary, and all the other Outpost locations were donated by Cooperative members. But this location was donated by me. It’s the former site of the Hawthorne School.”

“The warlock school?” I ask.

He nods. “When not a single other teacher or student remained alive, the school was bequeathed to me, the closest thing they had to a leader. I handed it over to the Cooperative and haven’t looked back.”

_ Remained alive.  _ That’s an interesting way to phrase  _ “were not murdered by me.”  _ But now is not the moment to press him about it. “And now it’s an Outpost,” I say.

He nods. “It’s underground, and is pretty well outfitted for the purpose. We really only needed to make minor modifications to get it ready. You’ll see.”

“I suppose I will,” I say, as we approach the house.


End file.
